Paper Boats 3

I blinked my eyes to shake that image from my mind.
I  missed Dada. Resting my head on his lap, which had the lovely comforting fragrance old people wore, of age and termites. I still recall him slipping money from the folds of his kurta to me, under my father's very nose, for buying my books. Papa adored Dada, he could never say no to anything he said.
So, even though nothing would really happen, It's still fun to share some secrets with your grand dad.

My eyes were watering now. But real men don't, rather can't cry. So, we disguise our pain into strength, and continue taking the world by the storm of progress. But nobody really understands the fact, that God created tear glands inside our eyes to release suppressed emotions, and sometimes, men need that more than anybody.

Have you ever been a source of constant hope and admiration for someone, and then completely shut out because you didn't turn out the way you were expected to be?
That's what happened with me and Papa.

Often when I was a baby, I didn't get everything I needed. So learning from experience, I used to wail my lungs out, until my ayas got sick of me and handed me the damn thing they were refusing. But the minute I got hurt, or really upset, the first person to leave everything he was doing and run to console me, used to be Papa.
He used to sit with Daadi and make her bless me. Take me to school in a royal jeep. Clean my vomit. Change my diapers. But the day I came back with a bruised nose, wailing "Papa! They hit me!", its as if he gave up on me.

All his efforts to make me a strong, able, athletic man proved futile. He took out all his frustration with that leather strap he used to wear around his waist. Little did he know, that there was a fine line between defending and bullying once your arms gained some extra muscle, and bullying was one thing I would never do.
Don't get me wrong. I learnt many lessons on my hard way, the most prime being that trust and love hurts more than a thousand glass shards plunged deep into your heart.
And also, like all special people, I ramble. 

I also make bad, evil plans of revenge. Like right now, standing in front of Papa's study door.
The great oak wood door swung open on me giving it a hefty push. The shelves were lined with books of all kind. Oh, the irony.
I picked up a sheet of paper, crisp and clean, and his favorite fountain pen. I found some glue, opened his drawer, took out a small, passport-size photograph he kept for emergency, and stuck it in the center. I watched as a drop of ink went ploink! on his face, and using my index finger, I drew a cross, as if eliminating his existence in this world anymore. Because the word "death" stings too much to use.

Then I started drawing arrows from his picture, and all the reasons why I detest him poured out. A broken heart, a bloody waist, a scarred face, a dead rabbit, a torn book, and....a crying baby. 
I had enough to fill a whole sheet, and it wasn't something I was happy about. 
The door creaked, announcing perhaps the arrival of a currently unwelcome presence.
It was Ma. I folded the paper into half, but not before scribbling one last, frustrated thing at the bottom of the page.  She stared at it curiously.
"What is it that you're doing here?"
"Nothing..I came here for some paper."
"Why would you need paper?"
"Because I..." Moms are worse than the Delhi police. "was getting bored."
"What has paper.."
"Oh God! I just wanted to build something!" Terribly frustrated, I used my fingers to fold the paper as I was accustomed to since childhood.  "Into a....into a....."

I looked down to the not-so-uncommon creation on my desk.
"I just wanted to build a paper boat. You know, its going to rain, and I wanted something to stick in my scrapbook to commemorate the day."
Ma looked at me, sighed. " You could've asked me. I would have given you newspaper or something. Why waste you Father's office paper for a boat?
Father's office paper. Even paper. Some people just manage to own everything, don't they? 
Tucking the paper boat into my pocket, I walked away. 
................
2bC

Paper Boats 2

God gives girls that grace and figure. In short, he gives them beauty which even guys are jealous of. Somehow my sister looks beautiful and radiant in spite of the fact that her eyes are shining with tears, in her typical Rajasthani ghagra, Dance classes, yeck. Dunno what they see in it.

She looks up and closes her eyes, mutters something, I think thanking God (or Goddess, we have so many I don't really know. )
"Today's going to be a lovely day"
"Why? What's the big deal?"
"You...you don't remember?:"
"If I did, I won't be asking?"
"The very special day they have predicted rainfall! After MONTHS!"
"Sure doesn't look like it." I shrugged, winking at the sun.
She rolled her eyes. "And...Papa's coming home!"
The sky did seem a bit cloudy after that.
So, the prodigal dad returns.

Yes, he had gone, for another court feud, to defend his usually guilty side. This one was the longest, he had been gone for ages now, and everyone was anxiously awaiting his return. 
Well, everyone except me.
Thankfully, he had taken the belt he used to whip me, with him.
I don't know what he wanted me to be. I was always the smartest kid in school, envy of the other kids, an ideal role model in the eyes of parents. But I think he wanted to make me more the "gaming" type. He was always displeased when I entered the house with books and my, if I was a minute late, I would get the lashing of my wildest dreams.

My sister was Papa's Rajkumari. All he ever said and did was mostly about her. He made sure she got everything she needed, and promoted her and her qualities to such an extent that she became the most sought after girl in the whole area. So while hers were of happiness, my tears were of sorrow.

I'm older now, and the lashes have stopped coming. But each time I feel like forgiving my father, I have been successful in reminding myself of how he ruined my childhood. All the hate pours out, and I change my mind.
Every single time.

Rain, however, was a different issue.

We hardly get Indra's blessed natural resource. Sometimes I wonder, what he must do, herding clouds up in the sky. Why can't he let it rain in the deserts?
We'd have more fertile land. So may farmers would be saved. Thousands are committing suicide everyday. All my family does is watch news, so I should know.
But when it does rain, Its often a very magical atmosphere.
I remember when it had last rained. Earlier this year, when Dadda had died. We went to attend his funeral in the blazing heat, and since we belong to the sahib family, we had to wear those English suits. I couldn't maintain my calm demeanor while my underwear was soaked with sweat, so I ran off midway.
And following me, came my father's disapproving stare.

Then the first few drops fell, and the clouds thundered. Petrichor wafted through the air, and midst the sorrow, there came a yelp of euphoria.
Then, Rajmohini, the prettiest woman of the village stood up and said. "Dadda had always loved our dance. He said, when he went to the heavens, he would tell the apsaras to learn something from us.
He is up there now, and the apsaras would want to see an example, surely.
Lets show them!"

Then payels tinkled, and bells around their necks jingled, and the old women of the village broke into a melodious Panihari song.
Strangely, everyone was dancing. My sister took my hand and brought me to the center. Hereby the "center of attention" I danced along with the pretty ladies too.

The whole celebration, was watched over by my Dadda's smiling photograph, glistening with the divine drops of occasional rain. 

*****************************

2BC

Paper Boats

Cold water splashed on my face in the morning. Add to it, the annoyance of the morning sun rays.
Then Ma shouting at you, at the top of her voice, and your sleepy mind magnifies it.
Someone rightly said. Sit at home, and you're a Nikamma. Roam outside, and you're an Awaara.
<sigh> will people ever be happy?

Somehow in Rajasthan, deserts have always ruled. Its either too hot or too cold, and unbearable most of the time.
My father, Shanovar Singh, is the thakur of the area. So we have all you could've have dreamed of, a palatial house, lots of boring Indian food which all foreign visitors fall over, maids which constantly fuss over you, an overanxious mother and a father with a heart of stone.
Do you know once he killed around eighty rabbits and called them "game"?

I frankly love animals. The school I go to, is miles away from the desert, and the atmosphere is comparatively colder. You can hardly see any animals in the desert. Once or twice I have spotted the rare desert fox, peeping out from behind the cactus, its tongue hanging out, but it vanishes as soon as it sees me.
I was acquainted with this lame ferret. As lame in the literal sense, meaning without a leg. 

He wasn't a genuine desert inhabitant- some rich guy had wandered into the desert yelping something about "finding spiritual knowledge". All the children of the village areas went to see this city boy with so much knowledge and books. Little did they know that all those books were fashion magazines.
He had a pet ferret, and thank god ferrets can adapt to the desert climate, because it would've been a tragedy if the poor little cute thing had died in the extreme heat (Of the desert as well as the chaotic mess made when the city guy's parents whisked him away. ) 
Some car ran over him, and even though the village people took him in because the kids were making their lives hell, he wasn't expected to survive. But there he was, walking as if he owns the place...only on three legs instead of four.
We are kind people, and we always leave out some korma and roti for him. We have this mutual understanding, and keep our noses out of each other's business, except when it comes to food of course.
So, coming back to the subject, I was getting really, really, really, really, well, increasing the number of really's won't increase my boredom. 

I ran around the whole house, pretending I was a housefly who was going to attack Mom's laddoos. Buzz I entered the kitchen, cunningly stretched my fingers for a laddoo to "contaminate"....and THWACK!

Where's the love, huh?

However, people are REALLY excited today for some reason, especially the girls. I run down the corridor and find my sister chattering like some monkey. Girls can talk so fast, and they expect us to understand each and every WORD, as if we're the tracks to their Duronto Express.

They're holding a newspaper instead of outdated issues of Filmfare (for a change). I run towards them, to spoil all their fun.
...
<Part 2>

Slips Of Paper And Lumps Of Metal

Yes. It was the seaside.

I remember it oh so well. The waves were getting strong, and I was scared. I felt it was taking you away from me sooner than you were supposed to go.

Then you touched the tip of your pinky finger with mine, like you'd seen my girlfriends do with me. A "pinky promise." I was surprised. Guys rarely ever do that, and you were so strong, and manly and handsome.

But we sat there, throughout the afternoon till the sunset.

That was the last time I ever noticed the beauty of sunset again.

The sun gleamed like a gold coin rolling away from me. I ran to catch it, you ran behind me, huffing and puffing. You were exhausted, yet you didn't stop until I did.

The scary waters were now luring me in. You never minded my mood swings, after all, you could do anything in the world for me.

We waded in, ankle deep. I shut my eyes, and we crossed pinkies again. We stood there, perfectly in sync, connected, telepathic, until all my fears floated away with the water.

The wind played with my oh so frizzy hair, yet you told me I was perfect. You said they were "curly", and curly was beautiful and fun.

You said, I don't resemble those ice hearted popular girls that way. I was different, and that I should love being different.

You were forbidden cupcakes, yet you ate a big chocolate chip one with me, because you know eating your favorite dessert alone can be oh so bad.
I tiptoe, and kiss you on the cheek, your eyes twinkle. I beg you to come inside, but you don't, because Ma doesn't like you with me anymore. I try the horrid way out. I start crying and saying that you don't love me. I said all the promises you made were false. Your eyes widen as you watch me run inside my house. I just know you heard Ma, because she yelled oh so loud "Did he hurt you? You won't go back to him anymore, you get me?!"

6 years later, I remember each and every moment I spent with you, and I can only wish you could see me, hug me tight before I go to college and do the most unfamiliar things in life.
You were all the fun and excitement I had in my life, and my first friend. As I look in the mirror, I see my eyes shining, with tears, and I remember the stars we used to see in the water.
Because I remember running to the hospital, screaming, brushing past everyone, into your room. You were sweating terribly, and the AC was oh so cold. The mask on your face was so tight, it was leaving marks around your mouth. You started crying when you saw my face, for the first time ever, and you held my hand and said "I'm scared". 

I said, "Its okay, you'll be with me forever"
"I'm not scared of dying. I'm scared I have lost you. Will you forgive me?"
I laugh nervously " For what?"
"You remember.....that night, I didn't tell you....of course I love you"
I started crying again, then laughing, or both. " I wasn't serious. It was just a prank to get you to come in. I know you love me." Now I was crying bad. "I'm sorry. I let Mom keep you away from me, all these years, and now..." I choked, "now..."
I hooked my pinky around his tightly, as his pain passed. 
"I'll....always..lo..."
I cried till my eyes were all red and infected. He couldn't even finish what he wanted to say.
I don't remember much, it was this dark, distorted blur after that. I recall yelling at Mom, blaming her. I remember the inquest. And all the money he left me.
They say I'm some princess now, with all that money.
I look down at all of it.
It hasn't replaced you. It was supposed to.

You were worth more to me than some slips of paper and lumps of metal.
I'm not going to go on about what they can't buy me. They can buy me nothing I want.
I want my first hero. My first love. My first friend. My first pony. My first protector.
I want the thing I loved most in the world, back.
And I loved you, Dad.

Confluence.

There was a certain character I invented, in a fit of boredom one day.
His name was Ouingu. He was small, round and shiny. His head was slightly flat, so he looked like a semicircle, but not quite. He had two tiny Zoo Zoo hands and legs.
The only word he knew, was Meep.

He wanted to tell the world so much, but never could. When you have much to say, and you can't, the silence can be deafening.

Ouingu was from the future. He was obviously trying to enrapture us with visions of good times, bad times, evils and wonders. His "Meep" meant a lot to me. But to others? It was just an annoying sound.
So Ouingu did something. He actually applied a lesson from his history books. Just like our ancestors, Ouingu learnt to sketch and paint.
His drawings started from the basic stuff. The window. .My parents. My brother. My runaway cat. Me.
In all of the pictures we were washing clothes by the river. Even my runaway cat.
They developed under the light of skill and creativity. Da Vinci level, even. Then one day, they stopped making sense.
Random splashes of red and blue. Sometimes a plain white canvass, A yellow circle. I didn't pay much attention. Modern abstract art, you know.
But, after a few days, my heart started sinking with grief. My life was going well. I didn't know what was wrong. Then I found Ouingu crying in a corner of my brain. I had totally forgotten about him.

His tears, were the most beautiful things I had ever seen. Swirling rainbow patterns, specks of black and white, like ying and yang. 

I closed my eyes, and in the kindest, softest voice I asked him, " Ouingu, what is the matter? Isn't the craziness and happiness of my mind giving you euphoria too?"

The sobbing stopped. He expected me to understand. I didn't.
His soft little fingers touched my brain's sensory nerves. I blacked out. 
*********
It felt like I was inside one of Ouingu's teardrops.
Rainbow patterns swirled around the walls. I was hurtling backwards. When my body was expelled from the travelling dimension, I found myself in a shiny, sunny room.
Really. It was as if the walls were made up of sunlight. 

The room was covered with things. Important things. The sword from the Indian Battle of Panipat, A red Stygian cap, A model of the Holy Grail. And Ouingu's paint set. I was puzzled by the sudden contrast.

Suddenly, people started appearing. Not only wise, wrinkled faces, but young adults, even children. They sat on a round table. Just like King Arthur's. A debate of the wisest minds of the world began. They fought and argued and Ouingu stood there in a corner, sketching.
Then from some where, a green gas started filling the room. All the idealists began to choke. Soon, everyone began to evaporate. I know it sounds weird. But still.
Pretty soon the room was empty. And Ouingu had nothing to draw. His sketches fell to the floor.
I recognized them.

I looked at them closely for the first time.
Me and my family weren't washing clothes. We were washing the colors of nations' flags.
These were all the ideas he had shared with me.

*******************************************

Ouingu was fueled with ideas. The arguments and debates. When the vapors of ignorance and flaneur habits floated into them, they simply stopped. Forever.
With that, stopped enlightenment. Art. Culture. Design. Religion, to some extent.
Ignorance is promoted. Ignorance that destroys nations.
You see, all the important things of the world, have a confluence.
A point very easy to reach,  Just imagine. Watch all the colors, from different fields, blend together. Da Vinci style.

Their strength together, the depth of the brown they make together, is sometimes greater than the ignorance.

Mix a little hope, you have Rangeela glitter shades. 

The Cloak Of Change.

.

Change.

Evolution.

Revolution.

Rebirth

<Swoosh>

<Sweet Breeze>

<Fairy Dust, with that magical, tinkling sound>


A hand appears out of nowhere, and pulls nowhere in the air. Not gripping anything. Then suddenly, lines and creases appear. You can see an invisible fold being pinched. Then the hand tugs hard as that pinched cloth of invisibility gives away.

The black and white world of prejudice gets torn down, and with it it brings a colorful scene of "present".

Where one rupee can hardly buy you anything, and people refer to thousands of rupees as "mere".

Technicolor.

You blink twice as more as you used to, because things are swiftly changing before your eyes can even adjust. Wild, splashes of color, and small houses become huge buildings, a toy windmill becomes a wind turbine. "Fun" is replaced by "Progress", and children just don't mindlessly play anymore.


This is what Change, has brought for us.

While giving us things which make times better, Change has brought about with it sorrow. People are getting poorer and poorer everyday, the river of tears is increasing in volume. The rich are lost in a dream- and the reality checks hurt.

Among all this boring, hard admission stuff, It has also subjected us to a new dawn. At the very beginning of a new day, the things we decide to do before we sleep, are a million times more different than what our parents or grandparents used to decide. While we think of changing Profile pictures, our ancestors found it difficult to change into a new pair of clothes everyday.


Just humble things.

Basically, our priorities were WAY different, if you know what I mean, and everything reflects it. Meanwhile, there is also a change in the human psychology, something I found very interesting upon realization.

Going old fashioned, is suddenly very cool. Like, using simple old English language instead of the urban abbreviations, floor length gowns from the 70s,  listening to old pop hits and most importantly, reading classics. You get instant admiration when you talk about Bob Marley or Gone with the Wind.



Moreover, we still come upon countless instances where the old culture influences our new ideas and society. Our religious customs, for one. They haven't changed for the modern man, reasonable or unreasonable. Scientists do puja for heaven's sake.


Many Indian hospitals insist nurses to wear white sarees as uniform, as the old nurses of India used to. It is something that we Indians should be proud of, because if one nurse from an Indian hospital stands in a row of nurses from different nations, she'll stand out from the rest of the dress wearing nurses.


Change always influences, harms, but never takes. Its us, who ignore the old customs, make trendy new ones, and blame Change for it all.