FOREWORD
This is the story of a life brought to the readers. It is not to invoke sympathy for the child. It’s meant to clear the mist around the complexity of life, its trials and tribunals. And the strengths and weaknesses every event creates in a person’s personality. Every event in every life is a lesson taught to evolve every soul, so that when we get a chance to look back. We have the courage to realize the strength these events gave us. It’s entirely a reader’s choice to look at the subject of the story with sympathy, or marvel the rich experiences of the subject. I personally feel to get an insight into life and the reasons for evolving are the experiences of life. Tougher the experience richer the lesson we learn. And every experience is meant to be treasured as a jewel, not to be lost in the sands of time.
In this case the subject could proudly claim, good or bad she was the architect of her own destiny, her own character and personality. She does not claim that she is perfect, but she loves being who she is; she loves every experience and treasure her life had to offer her. She could proudly turn around and see how the divine hand was always guiding her, and directing her steps in the right direction. Her life was filled with so much more love and richer friends than most humans could dream of having. The divine came to her in the form of dogs, and animals to fill her life with abundance of love.
She had the courage to differentiate between her niceties and the negative side of her self. Most of all she had the courage to acknowledge when she went wrong.
She does not blame any character in her life for anything. Every character in her life had their own complex reasons to be who they were and why they acted in certain manner.
All she can say is having learnt so much, its not the end of learning graph, it’s only the first step. Learning would be good if she could discover the real SELF. The school to achieve that degree is tougher, and she has to wait for her turn. Till then she lives in the bliss that the divine lives in her and she lives in the divine. The entire universe is her playground. What more can she ask in life.
The other intentions of portraying this story are to convey the message to all the conscientious adults that children also have feelings, fears and understanding. They need to be treated with more care. They don’t have the strength to retaliate so they withdraw into a shell of gloom and worthlessness. And when they grow up they carry the baggage with them.
MEMORIES OF THE PAST
This is the story of bygone days of my life, when life was just beautiful and struggle free – just a bed of roses! The word “worries” did not exist in my dictionary. My heart was a free bird and my feet had no shackles, the entire camp and the jungle was my playground.
Being the daughter of a Geologist at The Department of Atomic Energy, India, I had the pleasure of living in camps in the jungles of northern India, surrounded with untouched beauty of nature. I had the privilege of interacting with wild dogs and small sized wild animals like rabbits and star tortoises. Even though big size wild animals roamed the jungles they respected our terrain and we respected their domain. Our paths did cross on rare occasions but we both minded our business. There were some exceptions, when we heard stories of how a rogue elephant had trampled the tent of some geologist, and caused a lot of havoc. Sometimes some snakes or scorpions strayed into our dwellings, but went away without harming us. Although the animals I played with had nothing material to offer, they had an abundance of love to share. They assumed it was their task to guard me, love me, and protect me. In return I had nothing to offer them except a lot of love, petting their ears and feeding them a few tidbits stolen from my mother’s pantry.
My poor parents were living their lives in their own bliss. Father was absorbed in the scientific research of Uranium deposits for our ten year old independent country, India.
India was a young nation, just a few years of independence, from the clutches of British rule. Pundit Jawaharlal Nehru, who was then the Prime Minister, was my father’s idol. My father felt he could pay his tribute to the nation and to Nehru by spending every waking hour in research. On a few rare occasions, my father remembered that he had a wife and two children waiting for him back at the tents. In times like these, torn by guilt his paternal instincts would become very sharp. Sickness in the house was the main cause of worry for him. With our eating habits there was never a shortage of minor ailments like viral fevers, Mumps, measles, chickenpox etc. On such occasions he made sure that he was a dedicated father who loved his children. His way of showing love however, was by stuffing our poor little stomachs with lots of food, that too the healthy kind. As a result, I preferred not crossing my paths with him, and improvised ways and means of avoiding him, either by eating early or pretending to be fast asleep at his meal time.
My mother on the other hand was a pale and sickly lady, with all the virtues of a dedicated wife. She always yearned for her husband's company, which was a rarity from a nuclear scientist husband. So she preferred to submerge her waiting period in sleep. Sleep was her best friend, which gave her solace in her loneliness. Sleep was her partner, her best buddy; it never complained, never judged or confronted her. Sleep just gave her peace, solitude and comfort with a well laid platter of beautiful dreams. Life was perfect in it. These two qualities of my parents was a blessing in disguise for a free wandering soul like me. They gave me added freedom to interact with those beautiful animals, their loving hearts, their total surrender and their soft fuzzy fur in which I could bury my face. They did not mind at all. They did not judge me for my shortcomings and my extra urge to be loved. I could speak to them on any subject I liked. I could pour out my heart’s grievances, they listened intently, all attention, no boredom, no betrayal or intolerance to petty thoughts and emotions. They conveyed that they understood me, and that my silly emotions were justifiable. They loved me unconditionally. In this beautiful world, there was no place for man made material goods, money, glamour or dressing sense. Whatever I wore was beautiful to me and to them. They did not mind if I could not read or write. They did not mind if my hair was uncombed and disheveled or my dress was unkempt and ruffled. I was just good enough to be just the same needy me.
My dog friends were my loyal bodyguards, my allies, and soul mates. Whenever my mother went on her social visits to some friend’s house I would follow her, and my dog friends, all five of them would follow me in a line. This sight was very amusing to standby watchers and very embarrassing to my mother. These dogs would take their task of guarding me very seriously and fight with the other locality dogs to show me that they were capable of protecting me. I understood their innermost feelings but Mother did not. She had objections to their presence in my company. When mother enjoyed her afternoon siesta, I would steal oranges and feed the parrots. I would also steal uncooked rice seeds from her grain grocery and feed hundreds of hens in the neighbor’s farm. I just had to come to the backdoor and stand, they would come running for their share of food. In return I had the privilege of touching these wild birds. One day father and his friend observed this sight and wondered what spell I cast on these wild birds. They tried to win their trust too by throwing handful rice seeds at them and woo them. Just looking at them, all the birds flew away. Life was just perfect, a whiff of breeze cool breeze with the fragrance of wild flowers, colors of untouched beauty as if Mother Nature was at its best trying to please me with all that I needed to please me.
In this party of life my only other human contacts other than my family, were my tribal ‘Adivasi’ [Tribal] friends. One friend in particular was Paanmoni, who worked as a maid in our house. She did all the household chores, washed the clothes by bringing water from the local well, and cleaned the house. She walked ten miles every morning from the deeper jungles to work in our house. She had a very pleasing personality, always smiling, and free of all human worries. I distinctly remember, she wore a sparkling white sari washed in the local stream. She had a crown of jet black hair, well oiled and well combed, and was the owner of a sparkling flawless dusky complexion. To my eyes she was the most beautiful women who walked this earth. She had so much compassion for me. In spite of her endless chores, she always had enough time for me. She would not mind playing mock card game where she was compelled to lose. One day she came for work her usual time and her pet goat followed her. I asked her, “How come?” She had no answer to it. It seems the goat refused to stay home that day and followed her. Not that I minded it, more friends were always welcome. I found a new friend, my own lady goat who accepted all the vegetables from my mothers stock with gratitude. As noon approached my lady goat delivered two kids. In no time at all she licked them clean. Now I had two more new friends, tiny fuzzy soft black miracles!
How could a person like me resist holding them in my arms? I went straight to show my latest friend to our conservative Brahmin cook. To my surprise his reaction was strange towards these beautiful creatures. I could only see repulsion written all over his face. He made me return these babies to their mother, took me to the bathroom, and poured a bucket of cold water over me to sanitize me.
In all this time, the little me had very little to do with alphabets, letters, words, numbers and books. One day mother was put on the task of introducing me to this world of studies. In her hope to educate me, she promptly went to the market and bought books befitting a seven year old, with a lot of text and a lot of reading matter. As per the book store owner’s advise. Other children my age, who had been going to school for at least four years now were reading and writing. In her anxiety to please my father, my mother employed a tuition master to teach me. He was a youngster who wanted to make a little pocket money. He had no idea of what to teach and how to teach. It was beyond his comprehension that to read the text I had to be first introduced to letters, their phonics, and then the construction of words. Failure to read was never understood. Seven years under my age was good enough reason to read those books fluently. Those books with lots of text never impressed me. The very sight of master coming from a distance was enough reason to make me scramble to the safe zone of toilet, where I would spend an hour until the master went away.
Days passed into months, and then a year. Very soon I was eight years old with no progress in the world of books. I could no longer avoid school. It was befitting for an eight year old to go to fourth grade. With the knowledge of few numbers and armed with a few alphabets I was asked to battle with those big bulky text books. The holidays were officially over. I was forced into an arena of text books. Each text book looked like a hungry tiger waiting to devour me as a juicy delicious meal. Every teacher looked like a ring master wielding a whip and pushing me towards those wild starving tigers. I was now a small meal in the coliseum of life. Totally bewildered by my hapless state I simply could not understand what hit me. Those carefree days, those lovely dog friends, the beautiful jungles, enchanting wild flower fragrance filled breeze which played with my soul, were becoming the dreams of the past. I was now deep in the ocean of reality.
The disapproving looks of my teachers and classmates, my disheveled hair, un-ironed clothes, unpolished shoes, and loose elastic less socks made me aware of my unimpressive personality. This was a new awareness in my life. First of all, I had to do something about my personal looks, and then I had to battle with those letters and swim the oceans of text books, but how? – This was the big question. Any one I approached to show me the way would give me a puzzled look – ‘How come at your age you don’t know?’ This again baffled me. Now I became conscious that I was too old. It became very clear to me, that at this age I should know these texts; previous knowledge had nothing to do with knowing the content of these text books.
Slowly I started the process of learning on my own. I would look around, hear others reading and logically deduct the sounds of each letter. My first task was to recognize each letter in Hindi, which I did, though not systematically. Luckily, the Devanagari script in Hindi is one where the letter makes the same phonic sound as the letter itself. Although the learning process had gradually started, it was not quick enough to cope with the speed of classroom syllabus. In no time at all exams were in my face. I poured out all my knowledge. Unfortunately my knowledge and that expected did not tally. The result was a report card with pathetically low marks and failure printed all in red color letters. After all I was the only one in a class of forty who had test scores written in red color. Others had results written in unimpressive dark blue-black ink. I came home and showed it proudly to mother, thinking I would be given a bright smile, a big hug, and be congratulated. To my shock the response was totally opposite to what I had expected. All I got was a tight slap across my face, condemning me for my failure. I was told how I had wasted their sacrifices, and all the opportunities provided to a lucky girl like me. Why, I should be pulled out from the privileged school and go and help that tribal maid.
The realization finally dawned upon me. I had to buck up and speed up my learning graph. Slowly but steadily I mastered the art. Now the test scores attained in my language classes were somewhat tolerable to my parents, but to me they were at par with conquering Mount Everest. My troubles were not over yet. Mathematics was another giant waiting to gobble my existence. Learning numbers was comparatively easy; it was a very logical process. I could relate to the concept of addition and subtraction, and multiplication tables I had mastered by adding the numbers that many times. In my mind, I had conquered the world of numbers. But my little mind failed to understand that this was not enough. The class of fourth grade to which I belonged was mastering averages and percentages. Now, the numbers in these problems I understood, but what went beyond my comprehension was, how does language become a part of numbers? So I decided I had to rise above the irrationality of the text and just separate the numbers from the text. If there were two numbers I would subtract the smaller number from the bigger number and if there were three or more sets of numbers I would add them all up. Proud of my achievements I expected fantastic results to my surprise it was quite the opposite. Failure underlined with bright red again. I was once again face to face with the onslaught of rebuke and condemnation.
Later that year, during my summer vacation I waited for my elder sister to be in a happy mood, and then approached her very cautiously. She was knowledge incarnate according to my family. She had gone to school from first grade onward. She knew everything. She patiently walked me through the mysteries of these word problems. Now it made so much more sense. She had rescued me from near annihilation. In return I could not stop worshipping her. This knowledge was the magic wand in my hands, and I was the winner of the world. All this success was fine but the rule of the book was to stay away from mother. Report cards would come every month. I was well aware of the fear these report cards instilled in me. The very mention of the report card would send shivers down my spine, knees would go rickety rackety shaking out of control, and heart would go thumpety-thump. Adrenal rush was strong enough to flush the color from the face. If only I could hide behind an armor or become invisible. Getting the report card signed by mother was like putting my head in the mouth of a hungry tiger. The best way of dealing with the report card was to hide it under the mattress of a bed where it slept peacefully for the time being. That however, started a different kind of ordeal. I’d go to school and the teacher would get after me, “Did you bring the report card?” I came home and my mother’s queries started, “Did you get your report card?” These were the times when I really missed those beautiful jungle days.
Slowly and steadily I did try overcoming my shortcoming and started climbing the ladder of progress, report cards showed progress. And progress was evident though not very significant.
This is the time in my life when a cousin came into our lives. She was four years younger than me. She lost her father. My father was concerned about her welfare so she was welcomed in our home. I was at the top of the world with excitement. I was going to be elevated to a big sister status. In anticipation I was in seventh heaven. As soon as she came I took up my responsibility very seriously. I would wake up early morning get everything ready for her, get her bags packed, and give her a bath. I was the best sister in the whole world.
This beautiful relationship was very short lived. Elders in the family were not tactful. Realities started hitting me across the face. She was sent to school from the beginning so she had no problem with studies. Her report card was her best friend. Her intelligence was outshining. She did not need street dogs to make her feel special. Human beings made her feel special. She was well dressed. People loved her. Her report card made her feel special. People talked about her intelligence. She was the apple of the eyes of all the teachers. Her mother would stitch dresses for her in abundance. Her Mother hugged and kissed her physically. She just had to ask for anything and father would run around the town on bicycle and produce it for her.
This phenomenon was novelty to me. I could never dream of asking my parents for anything. It never occurred to me that I needed anything. Even if I asked the request would be turned down point blank. And reminded that I was a failure in academics and to get this privilege I had to be at par with her in academics. With these new circumstances appearing I was possessed by a new monster in my life known as JEALOUSY. My shortcomings, my failures, lack of love and feeling of not wanted started consuming me. I became aware of my ignorance. I started believing I was good for nothing. Not successful in studies, not good in looks, not worth being loved. I started avoiding all human contacts. I started distancing myself from that beloved younger sister. Love was replaced by jealousy and hatred. Whenever my mother and her sister rebuked me for my shortcomings and my dumbness I would pass on my frustrations to my younger sister in the form of two whacks. This act of mine further strained our relationship. Parents and Aunt started disapproving my behavior. I was stamped as a villain added to a failure in academics. I slipped further into the abyss of condemnation.
My elder sister had once made a rag doll for me from old white socks. This doll was my best friend. As far as I was concerned she was the most beautiful thing in the whole world. Though, other family members did not share my view, even its creator. I could talk to her .She could live in my pocket. She was always there when I needed her. I could share all my secrets with her. In my imagination she would help me in all my difficult times. I loved her and she loved me unconditionally. This rag doll was the apple of my eyes.
My father on the other hand found my rag doll very very ugly and distasteful. He could not understand my relationship with this ugly object. So every time he came home from the camps, his first reaction was to throw the doll out of the house. But somehow I would always find it and bring it back and apologize to it for the rough treatment meted out towards it.
Father would scold my mother and tell her to buy a new decent doll for me. One of those occasions she finally got fed up of my fathers nagging and she bought me a fancy doll, good enough to be decorated in the showcase. She wore beautiful clothes. In my vision she was just a doll with no life in it. It was gorgeous, very attractive but not worth loving.
To me my ugly rag doll was the most beautiful and lovable existence. No matter how many times father threw it out I always found it and brought it back home with love and care befitting a princess. I would stitch beautiful dresses for her with all the waste material I could lay my hands on. I would knit beautiful sweaters with all the waste wool I could lay my hands on. My rag doll had to have everything the princess of fairy tales needed. I was at all times concerned about her welfare, her safety and her comfort. This concern turned me into a very creative seamstress, skilled in embroidery and knitting.
My talent in embroidery, stitching, painting etc offset my shortcomings to a certain extent. I would find some solace to my condemned soul in these creative activities. I still missed those lovely jungle days, but I had to come to terms with reality of life. I was now adjusting to school and studies, two years had passed. My father was transferred from one state to another. For six months I sat at home, and then I was taken and admitted in an English medium boarding school. The new school was very strict and stylish. I was used to eating with my hand and fingers typical Indian style. In this school we were expected to eat with fork and knife. Table manners and eating habits had to be correct. Serviettes had to be correctly used, plates, knives and forks had to be placed in the right sides, and water tumbler had to be placed in the right corner. To add to it the use of the forks knives and spoons had to be used correct for each kind of food. This was the task I took forever to master. So the best way of avoiding embarrassment was to avoid eating, but the stomach was indignant, it wanted food.
The other ordeal was to communicate I needed to know English. The only words that I knew in English were Yes, No, What and Why. Armed with these four words I had to communicate. Luckily children that age did not punish me for not knowing the language. Moreover all of them were only marginally better than me in language communication skills. So learning to talk only took three months. Sometimes when they could not understand at all, they would ask me who taught you English?
The other struggle was studies. Now I was the most learned student in second language that was Hindi. But other subjects were monsters resurfaced. ABC was novelty to me. How could I read sixth grade books with very little help? It took me almost six months to be able to just read books. Believe me I just scraped through sixth grade. I could probably see the smoke behind me. It was a very close call to failure. But I was victorious in my endeavors. Luckily my mother and aunt were not there to demoralize me and tell me that mine was a wasted life in the society and a burden on mother earth.
Now I could tell these ladies, I was a successful person. My self confidence was back with me with a bang. Now I could proudly respect myself.
My rag doll had separated from me in all these travels. I guess my Dad made sure this was the best best chance to get rid of the beast according to him and beauty according to me. I still missed the secure company of that doll. I had to show her my success, she would be really proud of me. She was the only one who understood the struggle behind this success.
I started enjoying the boarding school, it was fun. All the other friends in my dorm were more or less like me. They had their own share of success and struggles. We learnt to respect each others personality, each others strength and weakness and above all enjoyed each other’s company. Yet I cried every time I had to go back to school after the vacations. Not being able to see my mother, father, sisters, home etc for next few months tore my heart apart. I loved all of them. I would not be able to see them everyday. The months ahead looked like oceans ahead. Train ride was born with a heavy heart. Moment I stepped into the school premises all these worries would become from the past. All those school friends would welcome me with bright and radiant smiles. There would be so much information to be exchanged. The very fact that we are together again was reason enough to celebrate. That world would be a world of bliss. Life was once again fun. We had our own little world of imagination. The warden would say the prayers and bid us good night. Now was the fun time. Huddled up in one bed, we would all pull out ghost stories from our memory closet. With all the adrenal rushing through our veins we would enjoy those tense moments when the imaginary ghost, would be at its peak of mischief in our stories. All those scenes were real in our thoughts. We could not have it any other way. One strange noise of cattle grazing on the lawns of our play ground, or someone pulling the flush after using the toilet, was enough to make our tense mind react and send a shrill scream down the dormitory. This was enough reason for us to be caught doing the forbidden act of listening to ghost stories beyond bed time of 9pm. So all of us would scramble to our respective beds, cover ourselves up to our face and pretend to be fast asleep. Next day, all of us would be content hiding the little secrets deep in our hearts. We were the proud comrades in our little escapades.
Evening after dinner one nun would come for our recreation, she would tell us stories, read books sing songs, whatever pleased us. This was the time when we were the masters, no corrections imposed on us. We were allowed to be our selves in front of the teachers.
One of those days, the nun who was assigned for our recreation duties, became unwell and could not come. The big boarders took up the responsibility of entertaining us. This was the ideal mischief time. Friends persuaded me to dress up like a ghost. Dressed like a ghost I came down the stairs. Looking at me children reacted exactly as expected by getting scared. They screamed and ran down the corridors. Not realizing my appearance is the cause of the panic I ran with them causing further panic until some smart child realized and unmasked me. Tables turned now it was my turn to scramble in the opposite direction. Next day stories circulating in the boarding school and day school... Rumors would be sensational. “You know a real ghost came, and was walking with us.” Some would say “No no it was a sixth grade student.” Some would say “Oh it had legs facing back.” Some would say “It was a friendly ghost, harmless you see.” And yet others went more imaginative,” It did try to harm us, but we were smarter. We vindicated it.” These tales were very interesting. I knew I was the real heroin of the scene. My friends knew what a sensation they had created. We all had our little secret and thrill.
This little life of mine had its own share of pleasures and pains. It had its share of own success and failure. Yet there was one divine power that was always grooming me and preparing me to find a way of getting closer to him. Now I am fully grown up, I still find myself in a tight spot some times, but I know that my best friend always comes to my rescue in some form or the other and shows me the torch. What else can I ask from life?
