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.
