ENDANGERED and other stories - krishand (read me like a book TXT) 📗
- Author: krishand
Book online «ENDANGERED and other stories - krishand (read me like a book TXT) 📗». Author krishand
easy to just pretend that I am busy with something on the PC. Some days I feel like taking a walk in the rain. Feels like it will set me free. Feels like I am in some movie where I just won a war and suddenly it started raining. Feels like I just knocked down a bully and water droplets dispersed in slow motion. Too many movies. I am watching too many movies.
“ sea is rough, its 40 for three ” Lilly aunty dressed in non contrasting colors would bargain fishes with grandma as cats caressed her leg eagerly waiting for a free fish that she would never care or dare to throw at them. The rest of the conversation is irrelevant. The dogs bark at the cats and the bargain is fixed. Grandma and mom talks about the bargain for the rest of the day. Even when they serve it for lunch.
“The rain would stop by Monday, you should wash your clothes on Monday “
Act like I didn’t hear it.
The “brother’s hotel” is always jam-packed. Its small but, then I couldn’t remember a time when it was empty.
“Twelve parotta”
“and……………….” the fat young owner, with lips like a tea cup ,probably one of the brother’s would ask trying to catch every single gesture of doubt and confusion as I make calculations of how much each one at home is going to eat to the net amount available.
“chicken curry…lot of gravy”
“and……………”
“that will be all”, I would shove in a smile to end the conversation.
It was raining heavily and the rain drops on the metal corrugated sheet over the hotel made the place more secure. The power cut made another regular surprise visit and the petromax lamp attracted the flame loving flying suicide squads.
Light, strong and medium tea was served all around me. Strength of the man is directly proportional to the strength of the tea. I remember when I switched from medium to strong. To be honest everything tasted the same except the name and the look that the cook gave .I could wait for the rain to stop and go home after the rain with the parottas cold as the steam cake that I will get the next day morning or I could use my umbrella and walk in the rain and feel like a movie star. I went for the latter. Tough guys don’t care about the rain or terrain. I wouldn’t remember these sentences when I search for my asthma inhaler tomorrow.
It was 7.30pm, the street light and its twin on the road stream shown bright in the rain. I got out of the hotel and stood on the traffic island. I saw a guy run towards me and he took refuge in my umbrella. I knew him. I didn’t know his name. But we used to play together when we were kids. He smiled “what are you doing in the rain ?”
Somehow’ buying a parcel for home makes me not wanting to face anyone. I know they are not going to gorger on my parcel. But then…I don’t know. I just avoid people.
“I came to buy parottas”
I walked him to the hotel and left him under the noisy roof. “How are you ?”
“I am fine. You are tall and you have out on weight,” he replied with interest.
We used to play the great tournaments together. Not thick friends but rival team mates.
The ground was shared by US and THEM. US the elite group of people who studied in English medium schools, who wore shoes and socks, who grew up on bread crumbs of grammar and punctuality, uniform and progress reports and were lucky enough to be born to middle class government officials or local businessmen.
THEM the not so lucky batch ,residing in slums near the channel., who went to government schools by around lunchtime, who didn’t even wear sandals, who grew up on the stale breeze of the channel with their mothers working as servants in households of the elites and their fathers working as daily wage masons or laborers.
The ground will forget all the distinction. All of us would sweat alike and swear alike.
We played against each other and sometimes when the count was not enough we played with each other. Cricket bonded us. Friendship sealed together by the flimsy adhesive of cricket.
“what do you do now ?” he asked.
“ well..i passed my b tech and I am waiting for my call letter” I wish I could say this with a grin.
“oh…engineering. Gud . lucky” he smiled again
I knew now it was my turn to ask “ what do you do now ?”
The answer came in pretty late “ I work for a contractor. I dig wells. We lay the inner rings of the well. “
“ sounds like an interesting job”
“risky”
Then I saw it. . His smile was poignant, miserable. He barely managed to hold up. He looked down his pocket and took out a fistful of hundred rupees notes and kept it back.
“that’s three hundred rupees”
mmmm………”
“ that’s my wage for today. My wage in weeks.”
“mmmm….why ? what’s with the well digging ?” I could ask,
“the rain.. its too risky. The contractor can’t afford to loose a life. The walls might collapse and some one might die. He called off all the works. We haven’t cooked anything in the past five days “
“oh… yeah I know its too risky.” I probably put in a sentence that would make both of us genuinely comfortable.
“Mother went to her sister’s house. At least she could manage one day’s meal.” Now he was sobbing.
“its ok…” I am bad in this department.
“” she came home today. I went out and finally managed to get a work. I dug a well without my contractor’s knowledge somewhere far. It was risky. But someone had already dug three forth and I and my friend completed it. “
“wasn’t it raining ??”
“it was”
I remember telling my friend who worked in an insurance company that I could do any job while he was staring at three men clearing a drainage porthole. His co worker added that “it’s a nice attitude”. But on the second thought, Would I. I don’t know. I don’t think so. I couldn’t be this guy.
“I got four hundred rupees, I went home and there was no firewood, all that we had soaked in this darn friggin rain. So here I am just like you buying parottas” he could smile again.
Now I could remember that I never really talked with this guy when I was young. Thought we were friends. This is probably the first conversation I had. It stirred me. It stirred me more than the economic recession to which I am directly related to.
The parottas were cold now. I didn’t care.
“ let me go and buy my parottas. He was feeling a lot relaxed now. Its like he passed on his grief to me and I am left dry in the rain.
“ should I wait”
“ no you carry on. I need to go to the bar after I am done here. A ‘large’ would help me sleep tight.
“ bye”
“good bye”
The rain didn’t make me feel like a movie star any more. I looked into my wallet. He had three hundred rupees. I didn’t have any. An empty elite wallet…
Imprint
“ sea is rough, its 40 for three ” Lilly aunty dressed in non contrasting colors would bargain fishes with grandma as cats caressed her leg eagerly waiting for a free fish that she would never care or dare to throw at them. The rest of the conversation is irrelevant. The dogs bark at the cats and the bargain is fixed. Grandma and mom talks about the bargain for the rest of the day. Even when they serve it for lunch.
“The rain would stop by Monday, you should wash your clothes on Monday “
Act like I didn’t hear it.
The “brother’s hotel” is always jam-packed. Its small but, then I couldn’t remember a time when it was empty.
“Twelve parotta”
“and……………….” the fat young owner, with lips like a tea cup ,probably one of the brother’s would ask trying to catch every single gesture of doubt and confusion as I make calculations of how much each one at home is going to eat to the net amount available.
“chicken curry…lot of gravy”
“and……………”
“that will be all”, I would shove in a smile to end the conversation.
It was raining heavily and the rain drops on the metal corrugated sheet over the hotel made the place more secure. The power cut made another regular surprise visit and the petromax lamp attracted the flame loving flying suicide squads.
Light, strong and medium tea was served all around me. Strength of the man is directly proportional to the strength of the tea. I remember when I switched from medium to strong. To be honest everything tasted the same except the name and the look that the cook gave .I could wait for the rain to stop and go home after the rain with the parottas cold as the steam cake that I will get the next day morning or I could use my umbrella and walk in the rain and feel like a movie star. I went for the latter. Tough guys don’t care about the rain or terrain. I wouldn’t remember these sentences when I search for my asthma inhaler tomorrow.
It was 7.30pm, the street light and its twin on the road stream shown bright in the rain. I got out of the hotel and stood on the traffic island. I saw a guy run towards me and he took refuge in my umbrella. I knew him. I didn’t know his name. But we used to play together when we were kids. He smiled “what are you doing in the rain ?”
Somehow’ buying a parcel for home makes me not wanting to face anyone. I know they are not going to gorger on my parcel. But then…I don’t know. I just avoid people.
“I came to buy parottas”
I walked him to the hotel and left him under the noisy roof. “How are you ?”
“I am fine. You are tall and you have out on weight,” he replied with interest.
We used to play the great tournaments together. Not thick friends but rival team mates.
The ground was shared by US and THEM. US the elite group of people who studied in English medium schools, who wore shoes and socks, who grew up on bread crumbs of grammar and punctuality, uniform and progress reports and were lucky enough to be born to middle class government officials or local businessmen.
THEM the not so lucky batch ,residing in slums near the channel., who went to government schools by around lunchtime, who didn’t even wear sandals, who grew up on the stale breeze of the channel with their mothers working as servants in households of the elites and their fathers working as daily wage masons or laborers.
The ground will forget all the distinction. All of us would sweat alike and swear alike.
We played against each other and sometimes when the count was not enough we played with each other. Cricket bonded us. Friendship sealed together by the flimsy adhesive of cricket.
“what do you do now ?” he asked.
“ well..i passed my b tech and I am waiting for my call letter” I wish I could say this with a grin.
“oh…engineering. Gud . lucky” he smiled again
I knew now it was my turn to ask “ what do you do now ?”
The answer came in pretty late “ I work for a contractor. I dig wells. We lay the inner rings of the well. “
“ sounds like an interesting job”
“risky”
Then I saw it. . His smile was poignant, miserable. He barely managed to hold up. He looked down his pocket and took out a fistful of hundred rupees notes and kept it back.
“that’s three hundred rupees”
mmmm………”
“ that’s my wage for today. My wage in weeks.”
“mmmm….why ? what’s with the well digging ?” I could ask,
“the rain.. its too risky. The contractor can’t afford to loose a life. The walls might collapse and some one might die. He called off all the works. We haven’t cooked anything in the past five days “
“oh… yeah I know its too risky.” I probably put in a sentence that would make both of us genuinely comfortable.
“Mother went to her sister’s house. At least she could manage one day’s meal.” Now he was sobbing.
“its ok…” I am bad in this department.
“” she came home today. I went out and finally managed to get a work. I dug a well without my contractor’s knowledge somewhere far. It was risky. But someone had already dug three forth and I and my friend completed it. “
“wasn’t it raining ??”
“it was”
I remember telling my friend who worked in an insurance company that I could do any job while he was staring at three men clearing a drainage porthole. His co worker added that “it’s a nice attitude”. But on the second thought, Would I. I don’t know. I don’t think so. I couldn’t be this guy.
“I got four hundred rupees, I went home and there was no firewood, all that we had soaked in this darn friggin rain. So here I am just like you buying parottas” he could smile again.
Now I could remember that I never really talked with this guy when I was young. Thought we were friends. This is probably the first conversation I had. It stirred me. It stirred me more than the economic recession to which I am directly related to.
The parottas were cold now. I didn’t care.
“ let me go and buy my parottas. He was feeling a lot relaxed now. Its like he passed on his grief to me and I am left dry in the rain.
“ should I wait”
“ no you carry on. I need to go to the bar after I am done here. A ‘large’ would help me sleep tight.
“ bye”
“good bye”
The rain didn’t make me feel like a movie star any more. I looked into my wallet. He had three hundred rupees. I didn’t have any. An empty elite wallet…
Imprint
Publication Date: 03-17-2010
All Rights Reserved
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