by Prashila Naik
You smile as the boy plops himself down on the first seat, instantly thinking of how you were of that age once. That age… you dwell on these two words, refusing to attribute any form of evil or malice to them, easily associating them to a utopia-like existence, momentarily dissolving the other boy in the sugariness that same utopia generates for you. “That age”, you ruefully remind yourself one last time, before focusing on the boy again. You know he is not rich, but you know he is not poor either, at least not the kind of poor that makes your heart bleed.
The boy is a restless source of energy, refusing to settle down on the seat, his upper body delightfully twitching in all directions, as if attached to a spindle. You watch him with fascination, for such sightings are what make your journey in that soiled and depressing bus bearable.
An elderly woman suddenly enters the frame of your vision, the pallu of her saree on the verge of falling off her shoulders, two overflowing jute bags – with a bottle gourd secretly peeping out of one of them – balanced in her chubby arms. You instantly decide you don’t like the woman, much in the impulsive manner in which you sometimes detest the very sight of your mother. You watch her with mild distaste as she stops near the boy, silently gesturing to him to move aside so that she can sit down. The boy refuses to budge even as the woman is forced to glare and move onto the next empty seat. You simply don’t like the woman and are inadvertently delighted that you are able to witness a few more moments of her travails.
You smile again as the boy resumes his twitching, his head expertly rotating by at least a hundred and thirty degrees, as he struggles to keep the seat next to him unoccupied. “Pappa,” he yells excitedly just when you are beginning to feel mildly disinterested in his antics. You turn your head by 45 degrees to look at the approaching pappa. You are unimpressed by his appearance. The man is lean and dressed in heavily creased clothes. His skin, even through the dim light and drudgery, you can see is disgustingly rugged.
“Pappa”, the boy calls out and begins to twitch all over again, only you know this time the twitches are a direct aftermath of an innocent accomplishment that jaded souls like you could or would never be able to experience.
You expect the pappa to smile or nod or just sit down on the seat his son has been so carefully guarding for him. Instead you see the man snarl at the boy, taking you by surprise. “Pappa,” the boys calls out again, this time almost getting off his seat as his father only ends up snarling for a second time.
“Pappa, sit,” the boy says or at least you think he says, for you don’t understand the language he is speaking in and you only feel a mild form of relief when pappa finally sits down, the boy too settling himself down on the territory he has so painstakingly been preserving.
You feel a strange form of uneasiness, your eyes by now glued to that seat, when the boy suddenly pulls out something that looks like a school textbook, and thrusts it towards his father.
“Pappa, Hindi textbook.”
You sigh softly at the ease with which pappa ignores the textbook and turns his head to look at the young woman who has just got inside the bus. “Pappa, teacher will be very happy,” you hear the boy say in clumsily uttered English as he thrusts the same book towards his father, for a second time.
This time the father swats that hand as if it were a fly en route to his ears and that is when you spot the slight tremor in those lean arms, a tremor that you are certain owes its origins to some form of alcohol. You look at the boy’s by now stiff back, wishing for his own sake that he would give up. But he takes you by surprise when he springs back to mobility, this time turning himself around on the seat, pointing his finger outside, towards something you cannot see. “Pappa, xxhjhj kjjjjk hjhjhs…,” he goes on in a language you don’t understand, unmindful or probably ignoring his father’s angry glares and indifference, animated and effortless with so much earnestness that you squirm. You draw your fingers into fists, tapping one of them against the other.
“ggj sjdhsj dhjsd utytasjk hhghg…,” the boy continues, his pointed finger now bent like a hook, tired but defiantly persistent. You think you can sense an increasing desperation in that boy’s voice or maybe it is just you getting increasingly worried . You then dismiss the possibility but tell yourself to relax trying to focus on the boy’s close cropped hair that in the dull light seem to be colored in a curious combination of rust and black. You are just about letting that curiosity develop when the father places a sudden slap on the son’s face. He follows the slap with a clear admonishment in their language, his arms still shivering and his voice chillingly cold. You hear the bus engine roar just then. You can’t see the boy’s face. You lower your head and look at your fingers, their nails long and sharp, filling you up with violent ideas. You don’t look in the direction of that seat again, and spend the rest of the journey staring straight out of the seat’s window.
Prashila Naik dreams of retiring into the idyllic landscapes of Ladakh and longs for a day when every child in India will have two full meals to eat and a permanent school to attend to. When not dreaming or longing, she continues to extend her repertoire as a veteran IT professional who loves to dabble with words and discover new genres of music.
Pic by https://www.flickr.com/photos/78653584@N07/
