For you, a thousand times over ...

I had been thinking of writing this for quite some time now, but never got the time to do it in the past one week ...

Today being a lousy Saturday (a good time of which was spent/ wasted in college) … here I sit, typing away…

This post is dedicated to the essence of the message contained in the book,

The Kite Runner, by Khaled Hosseini which rings in the ears of anyone who puts it down after having read it till the last page. Or sweetly haunts them .. yeah, that’s more like it ..

‘For you, a thousand times over …’

WARNING: THIS POST CONTAINS SPOILERS OF THE BOOK. SO READ ON AT YOUR OWN RISK!

The story is set in 1970-ish Afghanistan, and revolves around two main characters, Amir and Hassan, and is narrated in first person by Amir- a young lad (the story begins with his pre-adolescent years)

Amir and Hassan grow up together, play games together, read together, eat together, laugh together, run together … and Oh, their lives are literally built around each other. Only, Amir grows up in a Big house, while Hassan grows up in a small one, in the former’s backyard; Amir is the mastermind of all their “pranks”, Hassan- the humble executor; Amir reads out stories to the unlettered Hassan, who laps up every word he says as gospel truth, ignorant of the fact that the “educated” Amir Agha (an Afghani term of respectful address for elder brother) pokes fun at his ignorance of fancy words, and manipulates the stories while reading those out to him…

Again, Amir eats the food neatly laid out on a huge table for him everyday by his lesser friend; Amir laughs with Hassan, and also AT him, while Hassan is always looking for reasons to bring smiles on his Amir Agha’s face, and … the deciding difference between the two …

While Hassan runs … for his life… for his Friend, and for his Friend’s Kite of Victory , Amir runs away from his duty- as a friend, as a master, as an Agha to his little Hazara. Most importantly, Amir runs away from his conscience, he is a defeatist- an escapist. He tells the story.

Hassan is the Kite Runner – the loyal, brave and Tall man. Amir tells the story of Hassan. The story of the Kite Runner.

He tells us the story, as the Bigger master-boy, dwarfed in skill, mind and character by his smaller servant-friend.

Amir lives with his father- a self-made man, of great riches and social influence. Hassan and his father are the hazara servants to their Pashtun family. To explain by means of an analogy, Hazaras are the Afghani equivalent of the Black slaves (though not bonded, unpaid labour) to the white rich men (Pashtuns). History tells us that Hazara’s are the Shia minority, driven to poverty and misery by the sunni Pashtuns.

The following excerpt aptly captures the relationship between Amir and his father (He being a rich, khandaani pashtun boy, with no drop of father-like valour, but an immense (though less recognized) gift for writing, in his blood):

‘With me as the glaring exception, my father molded the world around him to his liking. The problem, of course, was that Baba saw the world in black and white. And he got to decide what was black and what was white. You can’t love a person who lives that way without fearing him too. Maybe even hating him a little’

A few lines of the Father, give us an insight into his character:

‘No matter what the mullah teaches, there is only one sin, only one. And that is theft. Every other sin is a variation of theft. “When you kill a man, you steal a life,” Baba said. “You steal his wife’s right to a husband; rob his children of a father. When you tell a lie, you steal someone’s right to the truth. When you cheat, you steal the right to fairness.’

(Although, years later Amir discovers, that the same man- whom he grows to love and respect immensely, himself failed to live by his own words. He deprived Amir and Hassan of the right to the true knowledge of their relationship- that they were half brothers- Hassan having been illicitly born to the family servant’s promiscuous wife)

Kite Flying is a great festival in their country. And retrieving the last defeated kite of the season is a matter of great pride and achievement – the Kite Runners are adept at this skill. And Hassan is the best Kite Runner in town, who always runs to fetch the kite of victory for his master. His last kite-run is when Amir, for the first time, ends up winning the Kite Flying tournament of the year.

The following excerpts sum up the entire story, as it unfolds later: the story of loyalty of the poor hazara to his master, in return for a cowardly betrayal by the latter, who finds himself sacrificing his friend at the altar of a pseudo-victory… who watches in painful, yet shameful silence and inaction, as a group of rich little pashtun brats rape the hazara boy, as a punishment for standing up to them, protecting his master’s victory kite..

After all… he consoles himself … he is just a hazara isn’t he …

‘ “Would I ever lie to you, Amir agha?” (Hassan asked Amir, upon being suspected of misleading them away from the victory kite)

Suddenly I decided to toy with him a little. “I don’t know. Would you?”

“I’d sooner eat dirt,” he said with a look of indignation.

“Really? You’d do that?”

He threw me a puzzled look. “Do what?”

“Eat dirt if I told you to,” I said. I knew I was being cruel, like when I’d taunt him if he didn’t know some big word. But there was something fascinating--albeit in a sick way--about teasing Hassan.

Kind of like when we used to play insect torture. Except now, he was the ant and I was holding the magnifying glass.

His eyes searched my face for a long time. We sat there, two boys under a sour cherry tree,

suddenly looking, really looking, at each other. That’s when it happened again: Hassan’s face changed. Maybe not changed, not really, but suddenly I had the feeling I was looking at two faces, the one I knew, the one that was my first memory, and another, a second face, this one lurking just beneath the surface. I’d seen it happen before--it always shook me up a little. It just appeared, this other face, for a fraction of a moment, long enough to leave me with the unsettling feeling that maybe I’d seen it someplace before. Then Hassan blinked and it was just him again. Just Hassan.

“If you asked, I would,” he finally said, looking right at me. I dropped my eyes. To this day, I find it hard to gaze directly at people like Hassan, people who mean every word they say.

“But I wonder,” he added. “Would you ever ask me to do such a thing, Amir agha?” And, just like that, he had thrown at me his own little test. If I was going to toy with him and challenge his loyalty, then he’d toy with me, test my integrity.

I wished I hadn’t started this conversation. I forced a smile. “Don’t be stupid, Hassan. You know I wouldn’t.”

Hassan returned the smile. Except, his, didn’t look forced. “I know,” he said.

And that’s the thing about people who mean everything they say.

They think everyone else does too.’

…….. …..

“You won, Amir agha! You won!”

“We won! We won!” was all I could say.

Then I saw Baba on our roof. He was standing on the edge, pumping both of his fists. Hollering and clapping. And that right there was the single greatest moment of my twelve years of life, seeing Baba on that roof, proud of me at last.

But he was doing something now, motioning with his hands in an urgent way. Then I understood.

“Hassan, we--”

“I know,” he said, breaking our embrace. “Inshallah, we’ll celebrate later. Right now, I’m going to run that blue kite for you,” he said. He dropped the spool and took off running, the hem of his green chapan dragging in the snow behind him.

“Hassan!” I called. “Come back with it!”

He was already turning the street corner, his rubber boots kicking up snow. He stopped, turned. He cupped his hands around his mouth. “For you, a thousand times over!” he said.

…………………

And years later, Amir – a grown up, happily married, but childless man settled in US, gets to atone for his juvenile sins, by rescuing his orphaned, little nephew Sohrab (Hassan’s son) from the war and poverty stricken Afghanistan, and adopting him into his family.

After years of internal struggle, painful guilt and torture, he gets a chance to “be a good man again”.

He gets to do for the son, what he owes to the father…

Even though the little boy, torn by grief and exploitation, is reticent and withdrawn, from the new family… (I think that Amir takes it all, as penance that he has rightly earned)

The book ends on an optimistic note, flashing a ray of hope .. in the life of the child Sohrab, as well as in the life of the was-a-child-is-now-a-man, Amir, with the following lines:

(An eager-to-cheer Amir and a reluctant/hesitant Sohrab are flying a kite in the kite-festival in US. Their kite finally wins. )

Behind us, people cheered. Whistles and applause broke out. I was panting. The last time I had felt a rush like this was that day in the winter of 1975, just after I had cut the last kite, when I spotted Baba on our rooftop, clapping, beaming.

I looked down at Sohrab. One corner of his mouth had curled up just so.

A smile.

Lopsided.

Hardly there.

But there.

Behind us, kids were scampering, and a melee of screaming kite runners was chasing the loose kite drifting high above the trees. I blinked and the smile was gone. But it had been there. I had seen it.

“Do you want me to run that kite for you?”

His Adam’s apple rose and fell as he swallowed. The wind lifted his hair. I thought I saw him nod.

“For you, a thousand times over,” I heard myself say.

Then I turned and ran.

‘For you, a thousand times over …’

This apparently, is a very common phrase in Afghanistan.. and it basically means ..

For someone like you, whom I so love and dedicate myself to, I would do anything you would wish me to … no matter how unpleasant or difficult the task, if it makes you happy, I would do it .. not once.. but a thousand times over …… as many times as you please …

So basically, anytime someone you love, and dedicate yourself to, asks something of you.. you tell them .. (not necessarily explicitly!)

For YOU .. a thousand times over .. :)

[According to one of the readers of the book who posted his views on a The Kite Runner forum on Orkut, the phrase may have its origins in the term 'Hazara' because the word hazara actually means 'from thousand', referring to the thousands of Mongols who invaded Afghanistan and whose descendants the Hazaras are supposed to be.]

In fact, I think this sentence/ sentiment is the key to realizing the extent of your love and devotion to anybody in your life …

If you find yourself wondering as to whether your RoI in anybody is really justified,

Or .. to take stock of just about how important some people are, in your life …

Just ask yourself what Amir had asked Hassan..

Would you eat dirt for this person’s sake?

Okay.. this is not literally.. but something like .. would you take all $h!t in life, for someone .. and this doesn’t mean blindly taking $h!t FROM someone, but for them.. for their sake ..

Okay, let me rephrase it…more literally.. if your dear one were ordained to be fed a bottle of grime- and you had a choice of consuming it yourself instead, would you do it?

You will be surprised to learn your own response, at the strength of your love and dedication, that you wouldn’t ordinarily even contemplate! … think of your parents and siblings or anyone whom you love …

And if you find yourself saying to them inwardly “for you, a thousand times over”

In case you did not know already, these people are absolutely integral to your very being!

Now, this should certainly not be interpreted the other way around …

That, you MUST feel like giving an affirmative response for such a question..

Or that, tomorrow, if I had to jump into the puddle for say my sister … I should do so with the “For you a thousand times over” principle in mind … No!

But, ask yourself… If I had to, would I??

If not, then well… that’s an open field …

But if Yes.. if u can say yes, without blinking an eye—then well, congratulations!

You have a beautiful relationship to cherish, to live for … and to die for ..

I dunno if this will appear to be an exaggeration, but I think this really is a mantra- a touchstone for love and loyalty in all relationships.

I was going through this debate online… over who was the real hero of the story – Amir – the boy who lived to earn redemption- by the atonement of his adolescent sins years later, or Hassan – the boy who sacrificed his life and honour for his Friend …

Amir admits to himself throughout the story, that he was a coward- not a braveheart like his father (or like Hassan) – and this is the excuse he gives himself, as he chooses to be a mute spectator, as the bullies launch a sexual assault on his 12-year old friend- who refuses to trade his Amir Agha’s victory kite for freedom!

I really hated Amir- not coz he was not brave enough to put up a fight .. but coz he was not even loyal enough to forego his victory kite (which for him, meant his father’s love and pride in him, at last!) – to beg before the bullies to let go of Hassan, to bear the ignominy of defeat and, win himself his friend’s life and honour ..

That, in my opinion, would have marked him as a real hero, ideally; The one who would beg for mercy, for his friend’s honour, if not FIGHT for it.

Worse, he goes on to punish Hassan – to fight his own guilt, he drives the poor boy out of his life and even his home!

However, he was, after all, just a 12- year old boy, faced with a decision not many of us have to make in those tender years … and he does eventually struggle to earn redemption- to make amends .. to give to Hassan’s Son, Sohrab what Hassan was unfairly deprived of, all his life.

Hassan was the real Hero of Amir’s story- by his unwavering loyalty and bravery,that stirs you to the soul... Hassan was The Kite Runner

By the last page of the book, Amir too grows in size- in spirit and character- by leaps and bounds! .. and you don’t even realize that he has grown into another Kite Runner, just like his Hero half-brother ..

‘Hassan was already turning the street corner, his rubber boots kicking up snow. He stopped, turned. He cupped his hands around his mouth. “For you, a thousand times over!” he said.’

….

‘ “For you, a thousand times over,” I heard myself say to Sohrab.

Then I turned and ran.’

*Sigh*

*sigh*

I wish to write nothing today. I want to put up these long forgotten poems, though .. don't ask me why...


(I THINK we did this one posted below with that half-FRENCH teacher, who was hardly 22-23 and had a nasal voice ... her english classes were drab .. I rem doing "The Highway Man" with her .. and still can't help grinning at the memory of her nasal "Tlot tlot".. as she read out the poem in class ...hey, u rem arps, all her classes began and ended with .. *nasal voice* "Vaishaali .. please open ur workbook..".. n all she discussed was the answers to the questions...as vaishali answered impromptu ..pretending to be reading off her previous day's homework :P (Vaishali, by chance or choice, would always sit right under her nose!) )

I just realised that we wasted huge literary works .. with her .... anyhow .. here is this one...

The Solitary Reaper

Behold her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland Lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain;
O listen! for the Vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.

No Nightingale did ever chaunt
More welcome notes to weary bands
Of travellers in some shady haunt,
Among Arabian sands:
A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard
In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings?--
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago:
Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again?

Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending;--
I listened, motionless and still;
And, as I mounted up the hill
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.

-- William Wordsworth


And this one !!... With our very own and beloved Usha Ma'am :) .. I still vividly recall her recital of this one (the stern- dramatic look in her eye ..when she read out the khadoos neighbour's dialogue "Good fences make good neighbours")

MENDING WALL

by Robert Frost

Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper boulders in the sun,
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
The work of hunters is another thing:
I have come after them and made repair
Where they have left not one stone on a stone,
But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
No one has seen them made or heard them made,
But at spring mending-time we find them there.
I let my neighbor know beyond the hill;
And on a day we meet to walk the line
And set the wall between us once again.
We keep the wall between us as we go.
To each the boulders that have fallen to each.
And some are loaves and some so nearly balls
We have to use a spell to make them balance:
'Stay where you are until our backs are turned!'
We wear our fingers rough with handling them.
Oh, just another kind of out-door game,
One on a side. It comes to little more:
There where it is we do not need the wall:
He is all pine and I am apple orchard.
My apple trees will never get across
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only says, 'Good fences make good neighbors'.
Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder
If I could put a notion in his head:
'Why do they make good neighbors? Isn't it
Where there are cows?
But here there are no cows.
Before I built a wall I'd ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offence.
Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That wants it down.' I could say 'Elves' to him,
But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather
He said it for himself. I see him there
Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top
In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.
He moves in darkness as it seems to me~
Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
He will not go behind his father's saying,
And he likes having thought of it so well
He says again, "Good fences make good neighbors."


************************

and ohh.. this one below !! ... again, her voice and expression are clearly etched in my memory :) .. as she would read out the bit when the villagers taunted Gulzaman- and challenged his manhood, for he was childless..

'GuIzaman, where is the son?

(this one is my favourite - coz rem she had a peculiar way of pronouncing "n" :D .. that was so very adorable! )
this is the story of an old shepherd who does not have a son. His kinsmen (fellow shepherds) pass cruel remarks at his manhood, challenging his virility! And he silently bears it all ... never expressing the pain and torment that he goes through..
One day, when it rained/snowed heavily, all the sheep and expectant mothers (ewes) owned by his kinsmen, weakened by the cold and poorly fed on wet grassand gave birth to dead (or 'still-born') children... and they could be seen lamenting the loss of their sheep...
However, since Gulzaman had taken good care of his sheepfold - had kept it warm and snug with hay etc .. his own sheep are warm and secure. The expectant mother sheep (ewe) in his fold .. delivers a healthy baby, which is alive!! (that it will survive is indicated by the fact that it pees after a while!) .... Gulzaman, who has taken care of all his sheep like his own family (children), is proud of this moment ... it is nothing short of an achievement for him ... for him, it is like delivering his own baby boy ..
and at this proud moment, overcome with emotions, he holds that new born high up in the air, and declares victoriously to himself as much as to the others , "This is my son" :)



Gulzaman's Son

Climbing his tortuous way from Kanzalwan,
GuIzaman leaves the river, buckwheat harvests
and slopes dark with conifers. His breath comes
in a half-choked whistle, the air uncertain
whether to burst through the lungs or whoosh
out of the mouth.

He doesn't remain with his people now,
among the sheepfolds and high-pasture huts.
They rag him, 'GuIzaman, where is the son?
Can we help?' 'Here comes the randiest ram
in the valley!' They're not funny, these jibes
at his virility. So each sundown he leaves
for the river to sleep in a stone-breaker's
pine-hut, till at dawn the sheep call him.

GuIzaman strains up the last hundred feet
to reach the fold. Expectant ewes
seek shelter from the wind under the lee
of limestone walls. He sees his kinsmen,
bearded and gaunt and broad-boned as himself,
brooding over a dead kid. Rain starts hissing.
There has been such heavy sleet the week past
that in the sheepfolds new-borns have been dying.
With the mothers wind-weakened and fed
on wet grass, the lambs are still-born, flopping
inert on the earth. Ewes don't even lick
them and probe for hidden embers of life
with their raking tongues. Broken, they turn
on their sides like sacks of crushed ice.

The turf is sodden but his own fold
is a small den made snug by bales of hay.
His ewe snuggles up to him and bleats
recognition, a thin tremolo of love
blanketed by gutturals of pain.
Relations crowd, darkening the doorway,
as with heavily-greased arms GuIzaman
examines her. Yes, the lamb is on its way!
An hour later it is there, quavery-legged
and wet and uncertain about
its rickety, four-pronged hold on the earth.
Shortly it pees. Allah be praised, now it will live.
It cannot die of a chill in the stomach.
Either the doorway has been cleared, or clouds
have been parted for an instant by the sun.
GuIzaman picks the dun-coloured lamb and holds
it to his chest. 'This', he says, 'this is my son.'
- Keki N. Daruwalla

(Pls note that I had first posted this poem without caring to mention the author! Thanks to Ashish, who promptly asked me this doubt ... I realised that I never knew the name of the poet! googled it up, n discovered that it was written by one Mr. Daruwalla... Thanks :D )
BTW: Gulzaman's Son was my first experience of Blank Verse or Free Verse (a verse which does not have any rhyme) .. We later did The Mending Wall and others in the same league of course ...

.. Now, that reminds me of an Archie Strip that I read in the paper today ...

Moose ( frowning at a poet's recital of his composition) :: That was a Poem? It didn't even rhyme!
Archie (rolling eyes at his ignorance): Moose, that was "Free Verse"!
Moose: Good, who'd pay for a poem that doesn't even rhyme!
:D :D :D :P :P

*sigh again*

Ciao ...

The Healing Power of Love .. *To You, Prof. Dumbledore :) *

*sniff sniff* *dry cough*

*sigh-cum-deep drawn sniff*

*gulp—eyes blink in pain, as my throat squirms in revolt*

*lifting each finger with effort, and mouthing a groan-y ‘hhmmm’ to di’s warning that I take care to not let her laptop slip down and shatter* (You see, I’m again holding it high in the air on my lap – it is perpendicularly suspended in mid air, supported precariously on a pair of sick and tired lower limbs, weak with fever – Cant sit up straight, m lying down supine ! – I employ this position often, but today it’s not a choice but a compulsion ..)

You know … *painful sniff again*

I am sick. And worse.. I’m down …not with the sweltering heat of Delhi … but with a Cold!

And I’m trying to figure out where I must have caught it.

Karishma blamed it on our frequent shifts between the AC-ed and Non- AC-ed environments .. no wonder so many people can be seen patting their throats and screwing their noses. This is in the air :( ..

I have strong reasons to believe that I picked it from a happy-go-lucky-go-publicly-coughy-merrily-throwing-cold-viruses-in-the-air co-intern, who insisted upon attending the office -with an EarNoseThroat fully choked with phlegm – every single day! … even though ordinarily he wouldn’t bat an eyelid when bunking office with such ah … CEO-like-elan coz ..and I quote“ this would show them how committed I am… “ :P

Yeah!

As if This place had not given me enough woes already – a (hitherto ) godforsaken project, a cup of Bad-tasting tea everyday .. for which (I recently discovered) they charge us right out of our stipend :P … A sorry sacrifice of whatever little dignity I had walked in with, at the altar of Some people’s Witticisms :( ..

And Now ! ..

The final straw that’s threatening to break the Camel’s back … a disgusting cold- rendering me physically incapable of free mobility, easy breathing, anything!! :(

In this state of half-trance (fever people! .. I have fever!! .. :( ) am almost filled with thoughts of vindictive pleasure *evil grin*

Let me be sick all the way up till Monday, and let me carry the germs back to their native place- My Office… Andddddddd let me gift these to all those whom I wanna get back at :D :D .. by means of unabashed open-mouth coughing and sneezing (yeahh .. could I be more of a blot on the name of my esteemed institute!)

But hang on *stressing her peanut-brain with all her might* … there IS nobody who has wronged me.. there :( … on the contrary … :)

*looks at the bottom left corner of the ms word screen, only to realize that she has been blabbering about stuff unrelated to the original intent of the post*

Okayy ,,, now m too tired … but wanted to say a LOT!! ..

Now, somehow, just cant!

Okay …. A few years ago, on this planet called Earth, another creature was born ..

They named her something nice. But she is my Fairy God –Mother, guised as a mortal elder sister.

I somehow don’t feel like profiling her on a public forum … somehow, I think any lay person laying eyes on her profile sketch would not do justice to the meaning that the words hold for me … and I don’t want to desecrate the divine phenomenon that I have here.. with me.. for me .. always …

Okayy .. I’m not even talking about the pristine soul that this one is …

But today, as I was purchasing something at a sabziwala’s cart on my way home (struggling to stand on my two feet … I am SUFFERING from fever remember*shoots a warning look if the reader had dared forget maintaining the understanding-sympathy look while reading this post*!!)

Well, suddenly .. I saw this really tiny girl … clad in modest clothing (the kind that wears off by extensive use, and is then passed on by the Indian Patron families to their domestic help et al) … this girl came out of nowhere, and broke down into really loud sobs, tears rolling down her already stained (with malnourishment and impoverishment ) face … I wondered what was wrong .. looking around curiously for maybe the Dad (at first, my hunch was that she was the sabziwale uncle’s daughter ) … well, he kept on loading and unloading sabzi nonchalantly, indifferently, as though the girl, her heart wrenching sobs, and bucketsload of tears did not even exist!

The little girl cried. Louder. Tears streaming down her face in spates! … And .. dunno what struck me inside.. I wanted to walk up to her, just hug her and ask her why she was crying… I tell you, it was so moving that had it been a more worth-her-space-on-this-earth creature in my place, they would have bought her a bar of Temptations to just stop her from crying.

She pressed herself against the door of a car … crying ..to no avail .. a few seconds later … she started mouthing (at the universe, I presume coz none of the bystanders had even noticed her presence, let alone be an audience to her sobs!) .. she mouthed “mummy..mummy” … helplessly ..

In a tone .. that yearns for clinging …

Clinging on to somebody or something , for help…. For support … for ..well … for just Being., for holding on.

I considered asking the sabziwale uncle as to who this kid belonged to .. and just then, my gaze fell upon another girl (bit taller than the little girl, lets call her ‘Chotu’ :) ) … looking at her from a distance ..

She stopped, she looked hesitantly, and then she looked away. Mouthing something to … I can only guess.. to the rest of her playmates .. signaling to resume their play anyway .. this disturbance notwithstanding.

Here is what I think must have transpired:

Chotu and her playmates must have quarreled (maybe they had an argument over whether she was “out” and was to play the “Denner” {err..pardon me, I was never sure how that word is spelt!} .. or maybe they were not including her in the game for some weird reason .. maybe coz she was the youngest of them all (didn’t they have a term for it .. kachchi goli I think :) ) … I dunno!! Cud be anything!!) … But here she was …feeling wronged, hurt, ignored and bruised … crying out for someone who would tell her comforting things that any kid her age would want to hear …

Ignore them. Didis are being mean. We wont talk to them. Come let us play something else.

Koi baat nahi, chalo abba kar lo. Vaapas game khelo.. Main dekhti hoon kaise Den dene ko kehte hain yeh log aapse.

Oh For chrissake!! Anything …

Or maybe she just needed a pair of warm secure arms to be taken into- away from the bad, mad world of her playmates. And wipe her tears on somebody’s safe shoulders. Bury her face into an adult’s tummy, hold on tight, and just sob her heart away.

And yet, there she stood. All alone. Forgotten. Crying her throat hoarse.

Eventually, she seemed to have run out of tears .. (shamelessly worthless as I am .. all this while, I just looked – from the tall girl, to Chotu to the sabziwale uncle .. wondering whether it would be ’okay’ if I just walked up to her and talked to her!)

I took my packet, and walked back home. And I had just rung the bell, and stepped inside my home that my sis’ sickly lovey-dovey welcome calls (like a cerelac baby had walked out of the can into her room :-x )reached my ears *indicative of a good day at work for her* … as usual, I cracked a ruthless joke about her routine annoying habit and her sanity levels , to M (our domestic help) .. and we both rolled up with sarcastic laughter.

I walked straight to my room until Nanima and di’s calls/queries became so intolerably unavoidable that I gathered all strength to register my attendance in their room. Well, there was an ulterior motive of course! I had to tell them how sick I felt. How I couldn’t walk a step without pain. How I was messed up from head to toe, and all this, after a hard day at WORK! (err… didn’t bother to mention that all I did today in college .. was engage in another chat-session/nonsense- repartee exchange with Mamata Ma’am and Devanshu under the pretext of working for the Live Project—doing just a little bit of real ‘work’ in between breaks!)

My face (automatically, I swear!!) rearranged itself into a look of utter pain and agony.

And I got what I had wanted. Impromptu .. Oooooohhs and aaaaaahhs … looks of pity, empathy, checking of pulse .. patting of the head … (“Shruti! .. ur running a temperature, beta !”) ..as I put up a mock-brave front. (I had even begun on a mature note- whispering to my sis abt the fever, so that nanima would not get worried!.. but Well.. Lady Pink Panther that she is .. how could it have missed her antenna-like ears.. and well I wasn’t really complaining in my heart of hearts – the more sympathy, the merrier I am! *disgusting I know! .. but then—u shud have known me better—this is the Real Me!!*)

Poor M flung into action ... with her milk and tea and whatnots ..

I sighed, simpered … and returned to my room .. and then yelled out to my sister something abt the “internet not working” .. satisfied myself with a .. “ohhh ..too bad” from her end .. and then, just lay there .. And waited for my sis to walk in …

Well… she has her magic wand .. and I make full use of it. All I have to do is cling on to her. Well, just her being around .. the safe knowledge that she knows how screwed up I am .. works magic.

I just have to pour it all out – not even in words.. she just understands .. lets me be sad, melancholic.

She has “it will all be alright, Shruti” written all over her face. *** see note at the end

Poor my folks.. have never gotten a positive/encouraging reply to any of their queries about “how was my day” .. abt watsup with my life in general. It is always cribbing. It is always the worst that I could list.

And if it weren’t for this ventilation..

But for these sounding boards -- I would have ceased to exist– ages ago.

Ditto all the others in my family, whom I turn to .. for just about everything.

Surely, the greatest gift God can give someone is a set of loved ones. Everything else comes and goes.

What would have I done I can’t imagine (and sheeeeeesh I don’t WANT to! ) if these people weren’t around! ..

One shudders to think of those unfortunate souls who lose all their loved ones in life … or those who never have any. Those who must “seek” love, security , trust, and mutual bonding.. get bruised, bleed, and bandage the wound themselves and move on … all by themselves.

Oh … I’m sure the little girl I saw had some family. But I am not sure whether she had the comfort of those arms, the snug hug.. the reassuring smile that says “ it will all be alright” … how many times do you see really poor kids wailing unclaimed around a pile of garbage, sometimes a 2 foot girl, holding a .5 foot bundle of a baby brother by her side .. and walking … barefooted .. to nowhere ..

The mothers may be anywhere .. maybe begging, or lying by the footpath, in a heap of desolate despair, weakened by hunger, exploitation and have-not-ism.- The Universal fact of Motherly instincts beaten down badly by animal instincts for energy and material/spiritual hope.

We just don’t realize just about HOW lucky we are .. and keep taking our loved ones for granted … Well, I think that’s fairly alright … that is what god made them for ! .. (as long as, u take care of the ROI factor--- it is all good :) ) …

I just wish she had a Fairy Godmother too .. our Chotu! I wish tonight someone put her down to sleep, with a kiss on the forehead, or in a tight embrace .. even if they were sleeping on a mat on a floor of concrete..

I just hope, Chotu .. like many lucky ones like us .. too has some loved one(s) … that she too has hope to fight all despair.

Professor Dumbledore had always been right about the Healing Power of Love.. how it can fight all Evil on earth. It can. Oh, it sooo can. If only, we would come to realize its potential power to spread happiness, peace and calm. Cheers, Dumbledore. Cheers, Jo.

Cheers …

*** Okay .. get real .. there is also this very mean, insensitive side to her! – like the n number of times she stealthily ate my share of Maggie, and unapologetically fought with me when I protested, when she locked me in the bathroom when I was a hapless little kid (err.. not really hapless tho – I had a good mind to bang the door down with loud wails, until I heard my mum’s voice and employed plan Two instead—of sitting sadly in the corner, to strike notes of sympathy, and win the game :D :D), the legendary war in which she tore off my favourite shirt, over “who-gets-the-remote-control” .., and gave me proper red scratches across my neck :O :O to my mum’s horror! .. Or when we punched each other in the face once (a real loose Tooth for a loose Tooth- and thankfully, since both lost milk teeth, we could keep the story under wraps, to be safe from parental wrath).. or when I was this one year old innocent (YEAH! I was THAT too, once upon a time :D) baby, and she would put me to sleep (by borrowing my milk bottle kinds from mum and feeding me forcefully) whenever some uncles and aunties came over and got chocolates for the “Two little daughters in the family. ..” and would feed on my share while I slept, and innocently awoke to absolutely NO recollection of the choc that I had earned a while ago! *gawwd… I’m kinda liking her less and less now .. as I recollect all this..*… Ohhh the list is endless!! :-x