Monday, February 8, 2016

The Watchman

I don’t know his name yet, but I want to tell you about him as I see his face everyday. When I go to work, when I come back home in the evening or, afternoons during the weekends when I go to the market. His face is not attractive, its not unpleasant either, but his uniform surely does not compliment his age. He must be younger or of the same age as mine.

He works 12 hours a day siting on a plastic chair and old rusty desk provided by the so called housing society. But I am pleased to see the he has a desk to himself on which he maintains a register and the drawer to lock his personal belongings. Recently, CCTVs were installed and he was the most excited person in the entire building as this allowed him to get away from his desk for a little longer if he desired.

He is fond of cricket and is always ready to strike upon a conversation with the inmates having good knowledge on the sport. He is a patriot in a true sense: one can seen him jump with excitement or heated with anger post match results. Usually his large screen phone keeps him company. He likes to indulge with his small circle of friends on Facebook, many of them he has never met or known in real life. He claims to have followers on Twitter too. And not to forget, he survives on youtube and such channels to enjoy streaming of good old melodies and live streaming of his favorite sport. From my recent interactions with him, which are very rare, I remember him enquire about a spare guitar after he heard me play near the window. To engage him, I offered to arrange a guitar for him, of which I am reminded now and then.

He sleeps in one of the servant quarters at the terrace of our building and given he has no privilege of holidays, it would not be wrong to assume that he is bored and looking for company. But I cannot be his friend. No one in the building can. He is never invited to our house and neither is he a part of our festivals, no matter how much his contributions to bring our celebrations to life. For us, he is a distant stranger and yet the one we see everyday bounded by his duty to guard us and the so called society. Occasionally, we offer him money during festivals or New year eve as a form of goodwill and gesture, assuming money is something he is deprived of the most. He smiles back at us with a thank you and we know our job is done. He deserves more than just our money. He deserves companionship.


And may he find the little joys of comfort in your passing by hello's. Companionship is priceless!

Sunday, January 3, 2016

Learning to ride


Gopal’s memory of leaning to ride a bicycle was when he rode it for the second time. The very first time, a friend ran along holding the bike, in case he fell. But riding a bike came quite natural to him and he did just fine. 

So the second time, when Gopal had enough courage to ride the bike by himself, he took the liberty to borrow a large framed rusty bicycle from Kaka whilst Kaka was enjoying his afternoon siesta. 

Gopal paddled through the crowded bazaar keeping his eyes attentively on the road. After a few rounds he was little more brave and decided to head towards the train station which acted as a landmark where their small town ended. 

Putting pressure on the peddles, he gained momentum and felt the adrenal rush for the first time. 

Tring! Tring! Make way for the bike! 

There was a blind turn at the end of the road and Gopal knew he should have slowed down but lacked the practice of actually making that decision. The fall was inevitable. Panicked and with little experience of this situation, he simply decided to jump off the running bike, which maintained its balance for a distance and went straight into the gutter. 

The crowd amused at the scene had a good laugh but offered to help him recover the bicycle.  With heavy heart he walked back and from a distance could see Kaka furiously looking for his bicycle. Kaka was not happy knowing that his cycle fell into a sewer and it implied that Gopal could never borrow his cycle again. 
After this incident, Gopal gave up his desire, except when he saw boys riding their own bikes in school. 

One fine day when he returned home after school he saw a shiny piece of blue metallic machine standing tall on its wheels at his door step. Awestruck, Gopal looked around to locate the owner. 

Kaka approached him and handed him a key chain made with the same blue metallic finish. Written on it was his name. 

Gopal felt the adrenal rush once again. Putting pressure on the peddles, off he went. 

Tring! Tring! Make way for the bike!