It was 23rd March 2000, my 12th birthday. I examined my new Killer Originals worn out Jeans.
“Black”, I had told my Dad, “Black, with the front half of the jeans washed out to a near white colour, and the back washed out to a greenish tinge in it”. Dad looked towards Maa with a smile. “And make sure it has a boot cut”, I made my last claim, the tenth time as Dad packed his bags to leave for Delhi. Even the designers would have been impressed with my description. “And please call me after you get it, or before you get it, I mean in case you forget the description”.
I had had an argument with the salesman in the shop we had been to, the day before. “Arre bachha, this is in phasan (read fashion) now-a-days. All students buying this, the kapda (read cloth material) is also first class.”, he said turning the jeans in and out and occasionally plucking a thread here and there mechanically. I turned to Maa and whispered, “what kind of brand is ‘Spicy Man Jeans’?”. My words found their way to the shopkeeper’s ears, our eyes met and I could see the scorn in them. “Bhabiji”, his voice was full of mockery, “ these new kids want only ‘Phorein’ (read foreign) companies, Arre! I say, ‘Spicy Man’s Jeans’ is Kolkata’s besht company”, he said to Maa, with his hand towards, what I assumed to be, the direction of Kolkata. Maa, responded back “It will be his birthday, so he wants that specific Jeans, It is Ok Lalaji! And his Dad is going to Delhi day after, he will get it from there”. The words had an impounding effect on Lalaji, the frown on his face increased his wrinkles and his hands hastily folded up all the Jeans he had rolled out with a flutter of elegance. He had championed “The Spicy Man’s Jeans” brand all his life rolling it out in elegance with his deft hands and displaying it to the customers... stretching and rubbing it on the ledge to determine its toughness... it had been his bread and butter. But now a plethora of melancholy thronged a corner of his heart on which he bore ‘Spicy Man’s Jean’s’. He was’nt a happy man at the moment. I had questioned the integrity of his brand against a Phorein, God-knows-what company. As, we walked out of his shop, I glanced back at him stacking the jeans onto a heap of other clothes, “I am a Spicy Man, R U??”, the back of his t- shirt read, in a pink font... my eyes rolled themselves upward.
I gave an emphatic smile to my Dad, after examining every detail on my new Jeans. “Happy?”, he asked. I nodded furiously with pride as I felt the ‘Killer Originals’ imprint on the back of the Jeans. “Now go and meet Savitri Mausi”, Maa took the Jeans and put it on the cupboard. I rushed down the stairs, excitement flurrying incessantly within me. Savitri Mausi was our ayah and I knew her since I knew my rhymes. I used to recite out rhymes to her every day after she finished her work... “Mausi!, I got the jeans”, I exclaimed as I reached down. “Happy birthday Karl Baba!”, she hugged me.... “I ll cook all your favourite dishes today”...” Look, there is my Grandson, Raju... you remember?”. I saw a boy sitting with his two hands on the arms of the chair and feet entangled. “Go play with him, till I make you food... Baba is going to have so many guests tonight”.
Hesitation made my feet heavier as I walked toward Raju wondering what the conversation would be about. He was looking up at a framed picture of me from my 1st birthday, I was surrounded by people trying to make me look towards the camera. “Hello”, I jolted him out of his sombre. His hair was neatly side parted dabbed in mustard oil, he had a frail structure which supported his unusually long limbs which reached onto his thighs and a large head. The white shirt hung on him loosely, ill-fitted and was torn at the ends of the collar... wrinkled at the front, but neatly washed and tucked under the buttoned navy blue shorts, which reached half way upto his thighs; his thin legs jutted abruptly out of his shorts. He got out of the chair as soon as he saw me and gave me a shy smile.
“ I am Karl”, I said, not sure whether to shake hands.
“I know”, he stuck out his hand for a handshake, “ Daadi tells me stories from your childhood”. “I am Raju”, we shook hands.
“Let’s go to my room and talk”,
“You have got your own room?” he exclaimed, his eyebrows shooting up, “Like only for you?”. The grin naturally came onto my face, “Yes”, I said with a glint of pride, in my tone as we walked up to my room.
He stood amazed at the G-Ijoes lined up in my room, and my Hot wheels collection stacked up above that, standing at the entrance of the room with servility. “Pick anyone you wish to... and why are you standing, come and sit here”, I said authoritatively. His face brightened up with a smile and gratitude, more akin to pride than to happiness, a trait that he had inherited in his blood, from his clan... a sense of utter gratitude and contentment suddenly brightened at a display of a little generosity.
“Can I see this one”, he asked with utter humility...
“yes, yes... anything you like”.
He picked up the Lamborghini Murchelago toy hotwheels car , came beside me and sat at a distance. There was a glint of satisfaction in his eyes conjured up with a innate desire of owning it, he tried to look at the interiors of the toy bringing it closer to his face. “There is dust inside”, he said and cleaned it with his shirt.
“Can I clean all your toys?, there’s a lot of dust gathered on them... I ll do it fast, before your guests arrive... and can you tell me their names?”.
A sense of being privileged gushed up to my brains and blinded the air of superiority I had around me. I felt humbled infront of his servility, I had never even bothered to play with an old toy once I got a new one let alone even looking at it. I did’nt know how to respond it... “Yes”, i muttered under my breath. “ I ll clean everything... tiptop... they ‘ll look like new”, the excitement in him was evident, “do all the toys have names?”... I felt guilty, I did’nt know for what, I could feel a knot down my throat. My conscience made me feel worse, I felt as if I was ridiculing him. “Do you have a tattered piece of cloth?... aah! leave it, I ll clean it with my shirt... its just Saturday, I have to wear it to school on Monday, I will clean it by then.” he said suddenly developing a chord of companionship with me.
“You, wear these clothes all through the week?”, I asked...
“Yes.. after my Father left us my mother fell sick for a month and one night she died in her sleep, Daadi has been raising me since then.. its difficult for her though, she is old now. It is difficult to buy new clothes”, a pain came down his eyes and he warded it off. He sounded mature, he sounded as if he had accepted it and moved on, burying the scars deep within his soul, he sounded as if it was just life and he had accepted it. I felt his pain, within me. My veins tingled with the coldness of the blood within them. I searched for that pain in his eyes once again, but acceptance had engulfed it by now. I wanted to reach out to him and hug him. He looked nonplussed kept on cleaning the G-I-Joe in his hands.
“Daadi, told me she’s making you Jalebis today?”, he suddenly looked up and asked me.
“Yes, they are my favourites”, I was still trying to accept what he had just said.
“I like Jalebis too... they give us one Jalebi each at the Gurudwara near the slums every Sunday. But the dogs are a nuisance... they try and eat the Jalebis off, from our hands..so, we take sticks along with us. Last Sunday a dog bit Gopal’s leg and took the Jalebi, it was bleeding bad.” He stopped to look at the toy’s weapon. “ Gopal is my best friend”, he looked up to me and smiled.
My senses were harrowed, as my mind showed me imaginary glimpses of Raju’s life. Thing’s seemed less complicated to me now and I felt lucky. Mr. Karl Marx had rightly said that there are just two classes prevalent in the society, the upper class and the lower class, the bourgeoisie and the proletariats. The bourgeoisie, i.e. the upper class controls the formation and increase of capital; the wealth is accumulated at this level. But the essential condition of capital is wage-labour, and the wage-labour rests entirely on the competition among the workers, the lower class or the proliteriats. The sub-classes like the middle class and its variations are just to palliate the divisions in the upper and lower classes, an illusion that is. The gap widens if the upper class does’nt adequately distribute the capital rested with it to the wage-labour and in a more subtle sense it is exploitation. I, you..we are privileged to have this life, to have these facilities..have people at our disposal...yes, reaching here may have been a hard earned process, but it is our duty to humanity, to life that we help people in the lower rungs of the society to whatever extent possible not forgetting that at some point of time we also have stemmed from there. I have a room of my own, a series of toys just because my Grandfather, my Father put that much of effort to make my life this comfortable. I have not earned it, they have earned it for me... and I ought to be aware of it. There are many Rajus in our own society, our community, our vicinity who have been arrogantly refused a normal life. We can reach out to them and do out bit and that is what makes us human. May be that is why my Grandfather named me after Marx...
The guests had started pouring in, it was late... I had been dwindling in my own thoughts, when Raju shook me.
“When is your birthday?”, I asked him. He had not expected that from me,
“umm... I don’t know”, he said.
“Come”, I took him to the room where by now all the gifts had been piled up. “Pick up anything you like”. His face bore a confused look. “Its my birthday today, and I want to you to take any gift that you like, any”, I asserted. “No no, Daadi will scold me. These are for you, I cant take any of these.” he quivered but his eyes brightened up at the idea of it. “ I want you to take a gift. I will talk to Savitri Mausi”, I put an arm around his shoulders and led him to the gifts. He looked around, with greatness and stopped at a transparent packet on the cupboard. “This one”, he said meekly; I looked up, “Killer Originals”, was written on the packet. ”This jeans?”, I asked... “Yes”, he said looking down. “I slid my hand under the packet and felt the “Killer Originals”, imprint the back of the jeans and handed over the packet to him.
“Hey, look at Karl’s new sweeper friend”, Amol’s voice startled both Raju and me as he tugged at Ben’s shirt. Amol and Ben were my best friends and bullies of my class.
“Don’t”, I warned them.
“Oh! So, you will talk back to your friend’s for the sake of a sweeper boy”, Ben said, coming nearer. “And, what is this?, you are stealing his gifts?”, he pushed, Raju who’s frail figure had now started shivering with fear, tears rolled down his cheeks.
“I gave it to him, don’t you take it away”, I pushed Ben back. I could sense the anger in Ben at being pushed back, he clenched his teeth, “Amol, tell everybody outside that the sweeper boy has been stealing gifts”,
“NO!”, I shouted out. “Stop”.
With a dash, Raju ran out. “Wait Raju!”, I ran after him, past the lined buffet tables, past the gifts, past the guests, amidst the clutter and cacophony of jumbled up voices. I could find him, nowhere. He had disappeared. I made my way to the door. I saw him standing at the gates there, his face had lines from the tears, they had stopped... but the lines made by them were still visible. His face had myriad emotions, I could’nt capture any of it.... fear, anger, humility, gratefulness. He disappeared into the night as soon as he saw me. I saw a packet lying on the floor,
“Killer Originals”, it read.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Nostalgic At Chennai Central
Its 6 in d morning...i am at chennai central, probably one of the busiest rly stns in the country..Rly stn..ah! i 've always have had an instinctive attachment with them. Probably just the word trains and railways inculcates nostalgia in me.It traverses me down the memory lane, a long one..as my relationship with the rly stations has been sporadic..
Memories of me holding my Father's hand and running down the platforms frantically searching for our coach no... not letting him get down at stations,as i would be afraid of the train leaving off without him..trying to push my head through the barred windows,looking for him when the train starts...Sitting beside my Mother and listening stories from her, with my head on her lap or sharing one earpiece each of the walkman..It has not only been the journeys, it has been an album of lovable times shared, of the bonds...the caring for each other and of emotions much more to express..
The time had to come when i started travelling alone.. i had grown up after all...i remember the anxious,excited and the apprehensive me, the first time i embarked on a solitary journey..with the anxiousness of the hundreds of kms of solitariness also excited about the same..and at the same time apprehensive as my parents wont be there to avert any uncomforting possibilities. My mother's worried teary eyes weakened my heart and at the same time my father's ever-soothing smile, gave me the assurance everything was going to be fine...It was my first rung on the ladder of independence, of getting to know and exploring the unknown nuances of decision making.
Like any other normal and sane human,i awaited vacations with a lot of life...going back home with friends is always fun, eating every possibly edible stuff that comes by..sitting at the doors..fighting over the one book to be read and the one charging slot for mobiles...sometimes i feel the excitement of going home is solely due the fact that all your friend are also travelling with u... we make plans weeks before we travel...discussing every tiny detail...hell man!!
And as i await my train alone, these memories bring a smile to my face and the nostalgia becomes my companion. I sometimes, wonder how alone we are,even in a place with hundreds of people around us..secluded from each other by time,identity,ethnicity though we all breathe, eat(in general terms) and walk in the similar way(again to be considered in general terms)....But more on that later, as my hunger and the food outlets opening outside have filled up the creative corner of my mind... in short,at present, i am compelled to suffer from a writer's block.
(p.s. this is a felt-and-wrote passage...so, kindly bear with the low standard.. thank you.)
Memories of me holding my Father's hand and running down the platforms frantically searching for our coach no... not letting him get down at stations,as i would be afraid of the train leaving off without him..trying to push my head through the barred windows,looking for him when the train starts...Sitting beside my Mother and listening stories from her, with my head on her lap or sharing one earpiece each of the walkman..It has not only been the journeys, it has been an album of lovable times shared, of the bonds...the caring for each other and of emotions much more to express..
The time had to come when i started travelling alone.. i had grown up after all...i remember the anxious,excited and the apprehensive me, the first time i embarked on a solitary journey..with the anxiousness of the hundreds of kms of solitariness also excited about the same..and at the same time apprehensive as my parents wont be there to avert any uncomforting possibilities. My mother's worried teary eyes weakened my heart and at the same time my father's ever-soothing smile, gave me the assurance everything was going to be fine...It was my first rung on the ladder of independence, of getting to know and exploring the unknown nuances of decision making.
Like any other normal and sane human,i awaited vacations with a lot of life...going back home with friends is always fun, eating every possibly edible stuff that comes by..sitting at the doors..fighting over the one book to be read and the one charging slot for mobiles...sometimes i feel the excitement of going home is solely due the fact that all your friend are also travelling with u... we make plans weeks before we travel...discussing every tiny detail...hell man!!
And as i await my train alone, these memories bring a smile to my face and the nostalgia becomes my companion. I sometimes, wonder how alone we are,even in a place with hundreds of people around us..secluded from each other by time,identity,ethnicity though we all breathe, eat(in general terms) and walk in the similar way(again to be considered in general terms)....But more on that later, as my hunger and the food outlets opening outside have filled up the creative corner of my mind... in short,at present, i am compelled to suffer from a writer's block.
(p.s. this is a felt-and-wrote passage...so, kindly bear with the low standard.. thank you.)
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
THE PRICE OF A FREE LIFE
Hi, I am Ram Sharma, an engineering graduate. I have often been confronted with questions regarding my future, what i want to be, my ambitions, my goals.. frankly speaking, these questions intimidate me, put me in a dilemma. I may be a free man in a free society but I am not a free thinker or not even supposed to be one. Freedom is my birthright, or so, as it is said. But i am bound to think within certain norms and rules which are pre-set, which by default is applied to every human being living in my soceity. Sometimes I shudder to think that maybe, I am not even bound to think this way, maybe it has always been there in my mind. After all i am a part of this soceity, i have my roots deep in it. I have spent a large part of my life enslaved to one thing or the other, to expectations that i never understood, to beliefs that were not mine, to ways that were never meant to be mine.
So, what defines me as a free man?
Since my childhood i have fought to make freedom my most precious asset. I fought with the ideals imposed upon me by people. I fought with other boys at school, who detested my existence in their society and made me the butt of their cruel jokes. Only after much blood had flowed from my nose and theirs, after afternoons hiding my scars from my mother, did I manage to show them my resilience without bursting into tears.I took up tutions for primary school students, to support my zest for playing the guitar and to be free from that old line in family blackmail, "You have to learn this and this, music is irrational and not productive". I fought without success, for the girl i was in love with; who left me because she felt i was an eccentric with ideas that differed from her way of thinking..and that I had no future.
I fought the hostility of my professors, as i wanted to do an innovative project, rather than sticking to the norm of selecting a project done by a previous year student. I fought to find courage to stand up against the system which was meant to slaughter the students.
I fought for my right to leave the 9 to 5 job that i had got as a memento for four years in engineering. I fought because that was not what i wanted from my life. And while i was fighting, i heard people giving speeches about freedom, defining its meaning. People who were themselves slaves of a life that they had not chosen, but somebody had else had convinced them that it was best for them and chosen it for them. People who depended on others to take decisions for them, their marriage, their job, their car, their house. They did not have the courage to do what they felt, what they wanted to do because they feared it would bring a drastic change in their lives, which would upset what they had grown upto.
I am free now and i always was. Of course, freedom for me has meant hurting people who are precious to me. But freedom is the thing i prize most in the world.When i see people,i see fear in them..they dont live,they just exist..they dont ask a question because it is not supposed to ask.In short their actions are a result of some one else's aspirations and expectations;their originality has been tampered with.When they die, they die regretting that they could be someone else. Despite the pain that that i have borne inorder to win my freedom, i dont regret the scars, i bear them as medals on my life. And today my petition for loan is sanctioned for my own organisation, which realises potential and new ideas and completes the projects; something very close to me. If we can dream of something, we can create something, if we can create a free world, people will live in it…and that is the essence of my life.
So, what defines me as a free man?
Since my childhood i have fought to make freedom my most precious asset. I fought with the ideals imposed upon me by people. I fought with other boys at school, who detested my existence in their society and made me the butt of their cruel jokes. Only after much blood had flowed from my nose and theirs, after afternoons hiding my scars from my mother, did I manage to show them my resilience without bursting into tears.I took up tutions for primary school students, to support my zest for playing the guitar and to be free from that old line in family blackmail, "You have to learn this and this, music is irrational and not productive". I fought without success, for the girl i was in love with; who left me because she felt i was an eccentric with ideas that differed from her way of thinking..and that I had no future.
I fought the hostility of my professors, as i wanted to do an innovative project, rather than sticking to the norm of selecting a project done by a previous year student. I fought to find courage to stand up against the system which was meant to slaughter the students.
I fought for my right to leave the 9 to 5 job that i had got as a memento for four years in engineering. I fought because that was not what i wanted from my life. And while i was fighting, i heard people giving speeches about freedom, defining its meaning. People who were themselves slaves of a life that they had not chosen, but somebody had else had convinced them that it was best for them and chosen it for them. People who depended on others to take decisions for them, their marriage, their job, their car, their house. They did not have the courage to do what they felt, what they wanted to do because they feared it would bring a drastic change in their lives, which would upset what they had grown upto.
I am free now and i always was. Of course, freedom for me has meant hurting people who are precious to me. But freedom is the thing i prize most in the world.When i see people,i see fear in them..they dont live,they just exist..they dont ask a question because it is not supposed to ask.In short their actions are a result of some one else's aspirations and expectations;their originality has been tampered with.When they die, they die regretting that they could be someone else. Despite the pain that that i have borne inorder to win my freedom, i dont regret the scars, i bear them as medals on my life. And today my petition for loan is sanctioned for my own organisation, which realises potential and new ideas and completes the projects; something very close to me. If we can dream of something, we can create something, if we can create a free world, people will live in it…and that is the essence of my life.
A SOUL'S WORTH
The green point in the ecg monitor rocked up and down, distorted yet valiant. Ram gazed at it intently, amazed at how it depicted ones survival. A soft tune distracted his thoughts and he glanced around clumsily where it came from...”damn it”, he cursed the culprit which was his watch under his son’s pillow. It was already 1 p.m. and he had not even realised it. Jeevan Jyoti hospital was his home now, he had left his business to his friend, had’nt been to his house even for a moment since the whole last week. ”anything for you son, anything”, he whispered. It broke his heart to see his son in this condition, ”why so much of pain to such an innocent being”, he thought, casting frequent glances on the ecg monitor. A tear welled down his cheek on his hand, he looked at it “only this much for so much of pain?...”, he wanted to blame someone for all this...who??..his fate? His deeds?..he had always been an honest man throughout his life, never had he betrayed or cheated anyone, always helped the needy and the sufferers...vengeance was excruciating him from inside..his eyes fell on the wall, a vibrant sticker with two eyes announcing , “God is great” stared back at him. Ram thought for a moment.. he had been an agnostic, never had he gone to a temple..religion didn’t bother him but all these customs, rituals, sacrifices for something illogical were repulsive to him. “if God exists, and he is to be blamed for all this??”, he thought.
His childhood flashed before his eyes..his father had left him and his mother to go to the Himalayas in pursuit of God. ”Dont go father”, he had pleaded crying..”this is my destiny son”, he had said...his mother sat in a corner of the house praying to keep her husband safe..”he has to go beta, that is what God wants” she pacified him. Since that day religion and his father had left Ram disgusted. “if God never existed”, he had told his mother, “father would have never left us and even if he does exist, he made me an orphan”. Ram had come to the city, worked hard and had made a place for him in the din and hustle. “i am a self made man he thought, i don’t owe anything to God, neither have i ever asked for anything from him”...”what an irony “,he smiled seeing his name on an envelope, ”Mr. Ramkrishna Sharma”, he read out his name aloud, careful enough not to awaken his son..he put on his specs and looked closely at the envelope. ”Hell”, he said to himself, ”why do people always forget an a in my name”..he corrected it, and read it again Mr. Ramakrishna Sharma..”when you were born the chief priest of the village had named you after the great devotee, and predicted that you will follow the same path” his mother had told him. The irony was maybe his father had swapped destinies with him.
“Mr. Sharma”, a soothing voice woke him up. Ram looked at his watch it was 6 and he had dozed off in his chair last night. “i see you had a good sleep”, Dr. Ramani smiled at him. By the time he returned from the bathroom, the doctor had done the routine check up. “any improvements doc??”...” i am afraid, no”..Ram frowned and sat down beside his son. “Mr. Sharma, we will need a donor soon, your son’s condition is deteriorating..your son needs ab -ve sample blood, it is nowhere available in the blood bank. Perhaps you could contact your friends or relatives”. “ yes doctor i will”, fumbled at the loss of words. “don’t loose heart Mr.Sharma, we still have 48 hours. Why don’t you visit the Lord Vishnu temple behind the hospital, many people go to pray for the patients there”. “i have never been to a temple”, murmured Ram. ”well maybe the Almighty wants you to be there now, i ll be back in the evening..take care”..Ram’s conscience battled against the doctor’s opinion, will my belief anyway affect my son” he thought..”i have never worshipped, never been to a temple, never believed in God...even if he exists, why will he help me”..random thoughts plagued his mind, “they say God is omnipresent, why don’t i sit and pray here itself??..the conflict continued..” the doctor knows nothing, freedom of speech should be banned in india”. .”if i go to the temple, i ll have to spend atleast rs 200 for no reason..the doctor maybe getting a percentage of money from there also”...after a great ordeal he got up, thinking that he has nothing to loose and still trying to figure out a valid reason not to go.”Anything for you son”, he kissed his son’s forehead and left.
It was a cloudy day outside, but the sun still shone bright. Ram walked past the clutter and chaos without hearing a single thing. His heartbeat had reached a 100 and his ears were muted, his feet were burdened with his ego. Is this how i prove my soul’s worth? Was I destined for this moment or i carved it for myself? With every step forward his pulse deafened his ears, he was the murderer of his own conscience. The voices inside were piercing his soul. His childhood, his good and bad moments flashed through his mind. He passed through a butcher’s shop...it had a large photo of lord shiva, he looked at it amazed...”how can God bear this sight? An innocent animal being butchered”. Just then the butcher came inside after attending to a customer, he washed his hands and put an agarbatti infront of the photo..blood gushed through Ram’s brains, he felt drained out..”God is love, he is there in every generous act..it struck him..we are his children and he is our father. He is there guiding us in every step, every moment of our lives”. He felt orphaned..at some distance he saw the temple, he felt as if it had opened its arms for him..he longed for some love,he longed for some soothing warmth, tears filled his eyes as he ran..he could see nothing but the temple.
Ram fell on the temple floor, curled up crying like a child. people gathered around him,he had gone numb, he kept on crying.. he felt somebody soothing him, running fingers through his hair..”Father i am here”, Ram murmured..through his teary eyes, he saw somebody smile at him, it soothed his soul..he had found peace..the place became bright, was he in heaven?? Did he see God??. He slept off on the floor like a child far away from the pain brought upon him.
Everything seemed blurry to him, Ram rubbed his eyes and found himself on a hospital bed. Frantically, he got up and looked around, got off his bed. Jeevan Jyoti hospital read a calender on the wall, he realised it and ran for his son’s ward. Dr. Ramani was standing there, smiling at him, “we got a donor”, he said..Ram felt speechless, he went and hugged the doctor. “Dont thank me Mr. Sharma, you never knew your father had the same blood group as your son. Ignorant, i must say”. This was too much for Ram, he was not well equipped to handle so much emotions at a time, his mind started reeling. Just then his father came out of the bathroom, he had a long flowing beard, looked heavenly. “Father”, he fumbled..”I am sorry son, I should have never left you..i realised it very late, when i came back to the village you people had already left. I came to the city in search of you, but in vain.A new mandir was being constructed here and they appointed me as the chief priest..finally God listened to my prayers and i found you today in the temple, i was surprised that you recognised and forgave me”,he sighed. ”God is everywhere, he is within us..all he needs is a bit love and affection, after all he is our father... He was in our home when i left for the himalays neglecting what he wanted me to do..and see how well he took care of you.. i am proud of you my son, very proud”. Ram hugged his father, fighting away his tears, the sticker in the wall looked at him, he could now see the smile in the eyes. “God is great”, Ram murmured.
His childhood flashed before his eyes..his father had left him and his mother to go to the Himalayas in pursuit of God. ”Dont go father”, he had pleaded crying..”this is my destiny son”, he had said...his mother sat in a corner of the house praying to keep her husband safe..”he has to go beta, that is what God wants” she pacified him. Since that day religion and his father had left Ram disgusted. “if God never existed”, he had told his mother, “father would have never left us and even if he does exist, he made me an orphan”. Ram had come to the city, worked hard and had made a place for him in the din and hustle. “i am a self made man he thought, i don’t owe anything to God, neither have i ever asked for anything from him”...”what an irony “,he smiled seeing his name on an envelope, ”Mr. Ramkrishna Sharma”, he read out his name aloud, careful enough not to awaken his son..he put on his specs and looked closely at the envelope. ”Hell”, he said to himself, ”why do people always forget an a in my name”..he corrected it, and read it again Mr. Ramakrishna Sharma..”when you were born the chief priest of the village had named you after the great devotee, and predicted that you will follow the same path” his mother had told him. The irony was maybe his father had swapped destinies with him.
“Mr. Sharma”, a soothing voice woke him up. Ram looked at his watch it was 6 and he had dozed off in his chair last night. “i see you had a good sleep”, Dr. Ramani smiled at him. By the time he returned from the bathroom, the doctor had done the routine check up. “any improvements doc??”...” i am afraid, no”..Ram frowned and sat down beside his son. “Mr. Sharma, we will need a donor soon, your son’s condition is deteriorating..your son needs ab -ve sample blood, it is nowhere available in the blood bank. Perhaps you could contact your friends or relatives”. “ yes doctor i will”, fumbled at the loss of words. “don’t loose heart Mr.Sharma, we still have 48 hours. Why don’t you visit the Lord Vishnu temple behind the hospital, many people go to pray for the patients there”. “i have never been to a temple”, murmured Ram. ”well maybe the Almighty wants you to be there now, i ll be back in the evening..take care”..Ram’s conscience battled against the doctor’s opinion, will my belief anyway affect my son” he thought..”i have never worshipped, never been to a temple, never believed in God...even if he exists, why will he help me”..random thoughts plagued his mind, “they say God is omnipresent, why don’t i sit and pray here itself??..the conflict continued..” the doctor knows nothing, freedom of speech should be banned in india”. .”if i go to the temple, i ll have to spend atleast rs 200 for no reason..the doctor maybe getting a percentage of money from there also”...after a great ordeal he got up, thinking that he has nothing to loose and still trying to figure out a valid reason not to go.”Anything for you son”, he kissed his son’s forehead and left.
It was a cloudy day outside, but the sun still shone bright. Ram walked past the clutter and chaos without hearing a single thing. His heartbeat had reached a 100 and his ears were muted, his feet were burdened with his ego. Is this how i prove my soul’s worth? Was I destined for this moment or i carved it for myself? With every step forward his pulse deafened his ears, he was the murderer of his own conscience. The voices inside were piercing his soul. His childhood, his good and bad moments flashed through his mind. He passed through a butcher’s shop...it had a large photo of lord shiva, he looked at it amazed...”how can God bear this sight? An innocent animal being butchered”. Just then the butcher came inside after attending to a customer, he washed his hands and put an agarbatti infront of the photo..blood gushed through Ram’s brains, he felt drained out..”God is love, he is there in every generous act..it struck him..we are his children and he is our father. He is there guiding us in every step, every moment of our lives”. He felt orphaned..at some distance he saw the temple, he felt as if it had opened its arms for him..he longed for some love,he longed for some soothing warmth, tears filled his eyes as he ran..he could see nothing but the temple.
Ram fell on the temple floor, curled up crying like a child. people gathered around him,he had gone numb, he kept on crying.. he felt somebody soothing him, running fingers through his hair..”Father i am here”, Ram murmured..through his teary eyes, he saw somebody smile at him, it soothed his soul..he had found peace..the place became bright, was he in heaven?? Did he see God??. He slept off on the floor like a child far away from the pain brought upon him.
Everything seemed blurry to him, Ram rubbed his eyes and found himself on a hospital bed. Frantically, he got up and looked around, got off his bed. Jeevan Jyoti hospital read a calender on the wall, he realised it and ran for his son’s ward. Dr. Ramani was standing there, smiling at him, “we got a donor”, he said..Ram felt speechless, he went and hugged the doctor. “Dont thank me Mr. Sharma, you never knew your father had the same blood group as your son. Ignorant, i must say”. This was too much for Ram, he was not well equipped to handle so much emotions at a time, his mind started reeling. Just then his father came out of the bathroom, he had a long flowing beard, looked heavenly. “Father”, he fumbled..”I am sorry son, I should have never left you..i realised it very late, when i came back to the village you people had already left. I came to the city in search of you, but in vain.A new mandir was being constructed here and they appointed me as the chief priest..finally God listened to my prayers and i found you today in the temple, i was surprised that you recognised and forgave me”,he sighed. ”God is everywhere, he is within us..all he needs is a bit love and affection, after all he is our father... He was in our home when i left for the himalays neglecting what he wanted me to do..and see how well he took care of you.. i am proud of you my son, very proud”. Ram hugged his father, fighting away his tears, the sticker in the wall looked at him, he could now see the smile in the eyes. “God is great”, Ram murmured.
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