Like It Happened Yesterday Page 2

  Our second room was where we used to spend most of our time, and so, technically, we called it the living room. This room, every night after 9, turned into our bedroom. I guess I was in Class III when Dad bought a black-and-white Rohini Deluxe television set encased in a brown wooden box. It had shutters as well, which we would pull down at night and pull up again in the morning. It had slots for storing twelve channels, though there was only Doordarshan that all the antennas in Burla could tune to—so the rest of the channel slots were just a wastage of TV memory. Ever since the TV was brought into that room, we had started spending most of our time in there. I remember Dad watching the Hindi broadcast of Doordarshan news at 9 p.m., after which my brother and I used to watch serials along with Mom.

  On one side of this room was a wooden cot which had an in-between kind of size. Its width was more than that of a single bed, but less than that of a double bed. A wooden dressing table and a multipurpose wooden table occupied the rest of the room. The table was primarily a study table, but we also used it as a dining table for all our meals. Mom even used to iron our clothes on it late in the afternoon.

  When I look back, I see how we needed only a few things to keep ourselves happy. Apart from the bed and the table, our living room had a lot of free space. A three-feet-tall and five-feet-wide trunk served as the storage for all our requirements, for the winter and otherwise—blankets, mattresses, bed sheets, cushions and a lot of winter clothes like sweaters and things that we needed to use after long intervals. On the other side of the room, there was a closet with a glass door, full of religious books that my father used to read. My brother and I used the remaining space in that room to dance, fight and do all sorts of crazy things.

  The last room was not quite a room, but actually functioned as a store. It was full of wooden logs to support the intermittent construction of the gurdwara building. Against one wall, there was a wooden rack holding large containers of rice, pickles and flour that Dad would have managed to get dirt cheap as part of a bulk purchase. A rope ran from one corner of the room to another. This was used to hang out clothes after Mom would have ironed them, for we didn’t have an almirah to keep our clothes in.

  Our house was tiny, simple and yet complex in its arrangement. We loved to live there primarily because of the vast courtyard outside, where my brother and I used to play. No one in the entire Burla enjoyed as big a playground as we used to.

  3

  My World in Black and White

  My brother and I had rhyming names. It was quite common in many families to do so. While my parents named me Ravinder, they named my brother Jitender. But the usage of these names was only limited to our school. At home, and, for that matter, in the rest of the town, we were known by our shorter names. I was called Rinku and my brother was called Tinku—rhyming pet names as well!

  Tinku was two years younger to me, and, by the time he was getting admitted to nursery, I was getting into Class I in the same school. One of our oldest pictures—in which we are together for the very first time—goes back to this time. It shows us perched on a two-seater red tricycle at a photo studio. A day I can still clearly recall …

  It was a Sunday and Mom had got us ready by the noon. She made us wear the new clothes she had bought only a day before. The two of us looked nice. We had first looked appreciatively at each other and then stared at our own selves in the mirror. As soon as we were about to leave, Mom applied some talcum powder on our faces with her handkerchief. I guess that was the make-up sure to make us look fairer!

  After that, we proudly climbed on to Dad’s bicycle. In no time, we were at a photography store in the Kaccha Market. We had been all excited knowing the fact that someone was going to take our pictures with a camera! It made us feel special, and, on top of it, our new clothes made us feel extra-special.

  At the photographer’s studio, Dad shook hands with the studio owner and exchanged a few words. All this while, Tinku and I were helping each other to tuck our T-shirts in and rearranging the creases of our half-pants.

  When Dad called, we both ran inside the studio with him. We looked around wide-eyed. For us little boys, it was an amazingly beautiful place, full of the possibilities of all sorts of adventure. Till then, we’d only seen a studio from outside, and this one offered so many things to explore!

  There were big stands with white umbrellas on them inclined at different angles. While the corners of the rooms were dark, the centre was fully illuminated with the light reflecting off those umbrellas. There was a lot of light in that space, much more than we would have seen at our home.

  My brother and I ran around in the studio and explored everything. There were wires running here and there on the ground. The wall in front of us had a number of background options. They were a sort of curtains. We pulled out a few to see how they looked, and then pulled out a few more. There was a dressing table with a mirror in one corner, along with a small plastic comb that had a few missing teeth, some talcum powder and a few lipsticks. All those items smelled bad, so I kept them back as soon as I lifted them. There was a huge carton in another corner of the room. It was way above our height, so we could not find out what was in there. At that time we didn’t know that the box contained something that would change our lives forever!

  Soon, the door opened and someone walked in. He said hello to us. There was a camera hanging from his neck. He was our cameraman. He was paying us so much attention because we were special for him. And, sure enough, he told us that he had got something for us. While we wondered what he was talking about, he walked towards the big carton at the other end of the room and pulled out a red kids’ tricycle for us.

  ‘Oh, wow!’ Tinku shouted. Then, as soon as the cameraman placed the tricycle at the centre of the room, he ran to grab his seat on it.

  I too ran after Tinku. We were about to enter into a scuffle when the cameraman intervened and shifted Tinku to the back seat. I loved the cameraman when he did so! Tinku protested, but the cameraman told him that the one who would sit on the back seat would look better in the photo. I silently thanked the cameraman for being secretly on my side. So my brother took the rear seat without protest, while I sat in front and jammed my feet into the pedals. Somehow, the front seat with the handle in my hands made me feel more powerful and special!

  Sitting on that tricycle, with the umbrella lights focused on us, we were the centre of attention for the cameraman and our father. We took a considerable amount of time to settle down well. It wasn’t easy to stay put in one spot, or to hold a pose. But the cameraman was an expert. He kept on guiding us and then suddenly he said, ‘Smile karo baccha log,’ and we did, and he clicked us.

  But our smiles did not last long. They vanished as soon as we realized that this place wasn’t a toy shop selling that cute red tricycle to us. It was only a photo studio, and that tricycle was a prop belonging to the studio owner. We never wanted to get up from that tricycle. We wanted to pedal it down to our home.

  ‘Daddy, asi eh chalaa ke ghar javaange na?’ [Daddy, we are going to ride this to home, right?] Tinku asked, trying to establish our claim over it.

  Dad laughed along with the cameraman and explained to us, while pulling us out, that it wasn’t our tricycle to take home. As soon as Tinku heard this, he gripped the front seat and almost dug his feet into the ground, retaliating at Dad’s attempt to pull him out. While I’d understood the truth and got off, my brother was screaming and shouting. Dad tried to scare him with his big eyes and also raised his forefinger to his lips and said, ‘Shhhhh …’ It was a warning for him to stop shouting and behave himself.

  And thankfully, in no time, his melodrama was over.

  I held Tinku’s hand in mine as the two of us followed Dad out of the room. The red tricycle remained in the centre of the room, alone, surrounded by the focused umbrella lights. It was heartbreaking to leave that beautiful toy there.

  But I will never forget my younger brother’s eyes in those last moments, when Dad was making the paymen
t at the counter on the other side of the room. As the two of us stood next to Dad, another family with two kids entered the studio. The same cameraman led them to the same tricycle. The kids joyfully ran towards it and climbed up the seats of the tricycle, which was only a few moments back Rinku and Tinku’s tricycle—our tricycle. The parents lovingly adjusted the positions of their kids on the tricycle. It was as if, right in front of our eyes, those kids were celebrating their victory.

  My brother stood calmly and watched everything without blinking. I watched that family, and then turned to look at my brother. I felt protective of him. It hurt me that he had wanted something so much, and yet he couldn’t have it.

  Soon Dad was through with the payment and asked us to follow him back home. I remember saying those final words to my brother as I continued to hold his hand, ‘Ae taa chhoti tricycle hai. Asi taa vaddi cycle lavaange!’ [This is a small tricycle. We will buy a bigger one!] It was my way of consoling him. With that, I tightened my grip over his hand and we walked out of the studio.

  ‘Heads, I will stay back. Tails, you will,’ he suggests.

  The sound of gunfire and the boulders behind which they are hiding, in the hills, fill in the entire scene.

  He tosses the coin.

  It’s heads.

  Jai shows the coin on his palm to Veeru, and asks him to immediately leave along with Basanti, and come back with four cartons of ammunition.

  Soon, he is all by himself, fighting the bandits on the plateau. I believe he will make it. I believe he will kill everyone—the way he has done so far.

  But the next time he opens the chamber of his revolver, there is only one bullet in it. Something tells me that he is going to do wonders with that one bullet. He has to.

  That is when he spots a bomb over the wooden bridge, which is the only connection between him and the bandits. But time is running out. The bandits have already stepped on to that bridge, and are making their way towards him.

  He has all my attention. It is a dangerous moment. I love Jai and I want him to win. But he is all alone. I cross my fingers. I shout and tell him to wait and not to come out into the open. He is safe there behind the rocks.

  Besides, I am furious at Veeru, who hasn’t yet come back with the ammunition. ‘Veeru kyun nahi aa raha?’ I shout and leap up, wondering why Veeru hasn’t showed up.

  Just then, from behind the rock, Jai jumps out into the open to pick up an abandoned revolver.

  ‘Oh no, Jai!’ I shout and inch closer to the TV set.

  His body rolls in the dust. A few more rounds of fire are heard. I am worried about Jai. I pray to God for his safety. He picks up that revolver and walks straight to the bridge. The bandits are advancing from the other side.

  ‘Oh God!’ I say and grab my forehead in my hands.

  Jai takes an aim at the bomb with his revolver in the left hand. Right then, I see a spot of blood oozing out of his body.

  ‘Shit! Goli lag gayi Jai ko!’ I scream—Jai has been shot.

  An injured Jai shoots at the bomb. It explodes, and the bridge collapses. A few bandits are killed, while the rest of them run away.

  The blood-soaked Jai is lying on the ground. Veeru arrives on his horse and calls out Jai’s name.

  My heart sinks to see Jai lying like that in Veeru’s lap. He says that he won’t be able to tell their stories to Veeru’s children. That confirms he is not going to survive. I am about to break down. I still pray to God that my fear should not come true.

  Jai continues to mutter Veeru’s name before he finally takes his last breath.

  He dies. My hero dies. My Jai dies.

  The sad tune of the harmonica that Jai used to play follows his death. And I start crying. Tears roll down my eyes. I grieve for the loss of Jai. I finish watching the rest of the movie in a state of deep agony. If the Thakur wouldn’t have finished Gabbar off, I had pledged to find that beast and avenge Jai’s death by killing him myself.

  I spend a sad day thinking about Jai. Occasionally, I cry. Later in the evening, when my father is watching the news in the prime-time bulletin, I spot Jai in one of the news items.

  I can’t believe my eyes. I shout, ‘Jai is alive?’

  Dad looks at me and asks, ‘Why? What happened to him? And his name is Amitabh Bachchan!’

  ‘No, he is Jai! He died this afternoon,’ I say, my eyes still focused on the man on the screen. There are a lot of people around him. He is signing something for them and smiling.

  ‘He watched Sholay today and the character’s death in the movie has made him sad,’ Mom updates Dad.

  He bursts into laughter.

  Dad then explains to me that movies and serials are just fiction. News is for real. I listen to him very carefully.

  Just before going to bed, I go to Dad. He is in his bed and fast asleep. But this can’t wait. I wake him up from his sleep and ask, ‘Daddy, you’re sure Jai is alive, na?’

  4

  Fear of the Needle

  If there was anything that I was afraid of as a child, it was the hospital in our town. The hospital building was the biggest structure of brick and concrete in Burla—a light pink colour, and surrounded by tall green deodars and gulmohar trees, with seasonal orange flowers in them. A never-ending row of bicycles and motorcycles would make a serpentine line in the shade of the trees.

  Every time I crossed that building, I used to feel a chill run down my spine. From the outside, everything was just so quiet and normal. But only the people who would have walked into it would know about what happened inside. I had walked into it a couple of times.

  I was made to do so, against my will, by my father.

  So I knew what went on inside.

  My brother and I had not been given our inoculations at birth or in the few months afterwards, as was the usual practice. Our tragedy was that by the time our parents realized the importance of those injections, we were old enough to understand that injections hurt. Therefore, we used to run away from them.

  But they were necessary.

  So Dad, very cunningly, never told us when he was taking us to the hospital. He would make the two of us sit on his bicycle and tell us that we were going out for a nice ride. Tinku, as usual, would occupy the front bar while I would sit on the carrier, holding on to the front seat, on which Dad would be sitting. Only when he would miss the right turn towards the Pakka Market and continue to go straight, where the road led to nothing but the hospital, we would be clear of his ill intentions.

  And then suddenly my brother and I would start squirming on our seats, knowing what was coming our way.

  ‘Daddy, assi kitthey jaa rahe hain?’ [Daddy, where are we going?] one of us would ask in a terrified tone, very much aware of the answer.

  It was quite common for our father to not provide an answer to that one. So I would tell my brother, ‘Tinku, Daddy saanu injection lagvaan lae ke jaa rahe hai.’ [Tinku, Daddy is taking us for our injections.]

  And then my brother would ask, ‘But Daddy had told us that we were going for a ride?’

  So I would tell him, ‘Daddy ne jhutt boleya si.’ [Daddy had lied to us.]

  ‘Rinku Veer, Daddy ne jhutt kyun boleya si?’ [Why did Daddy lie?] he would ask again, trying to reconfirm the unbelievable.

  The bicycle would keep moving. The two of us would keep talking. I always wanted to hold my brother’s hand then. He too would want to see me. But the two of us used to be separated by our father.

  Right at the registration counter, our fear would take a mammoth shape. The clerk at the registration desk knew our father very well. He would smile and fill in half the details on his own. Our father would take two slips, one for each of us, and we would walk with him, holding his hands on either side—the two of us in our half-pants and T-shirts, ready to be poked!

  As we walked up the staircase, I would realize how close we were to the terrible process. The peculiar smell of disinfectant would fill my nostrils and virtually choke me. The dark galleries of the hospital’s outd
oor wards would terrorize me. The sight of the green curtains, the nurses in white and the number of sick people around would make me also feel sick. The whole atmosphere in that government hospital was that of a horror story.

  That horror multiplied by several times the moment we would reach our ward. As usual, there would be a vampire-like nurse whose business it was to draw blood from people’s fingers or arms, besides injecting poor little kids like us. We knew her well. She was acquainted with us too. We were a challenge for her. Many times, we had created a scene in front of her and the rest of the hospital, crying, screaming and running out without our pants!

  Knowing our desperation to escape, Dad never forgot to lure us with items of our interest. Most of the times, he would tempt us by saying that he was going to treat us to Frooti—a popular mango drink—if only we agreed to take the shots.

  We were madly in love with that three-rupee drink, which came packaged in a square green Tetra Pak. The front of the packet had an image of two ripe, yellow mangoes, with droplets of chilled water sliding down them. Dad knew very well how much we loved this particular drink. Insane as it might sound, our deep love for Frooti overcame our fear of the injections, and our father knew how to use that.

  We would willingly lie down on our stomachs on the medical bed, baring our bottoms for the injections. In our minds, we would see the shopkeeper taking the chilled packets of Frooti out of his freezer, just for us. In the meantime, the nurse would take out the needle from the boiling water over the electric heater. Our dreams would progress, and we would now be holding our coveted drink in our hands. The nurse was constantly in the process of preparing the injection, pushing in the nozzle to flush the air out of the syringe. And, as we imagined piercing the tiny round foil at the upper corner of the Tetra Pak with our pointed straws, the nurse would pierce our behinds with that injection.