Worlds apart

I dash across the street, half panting and hand raised — a gesture for the bus-man to stop. The bus makes a great screech and comes to a halt a little beyond the depot, the passengers lurching forward muttering under their breath. I push through the door and sandwich myself between the angry horde. The bus is packed till the hilt; the passengers stand like figurines none changing their posture. The only disturbance comes when the bus stops for the passengers to get down. My stop comes after about an hour and a half’s ride. I jump down the bus and breathe in relief, taking a lungful of cool air. This is how I had come to terms with my work about two and a half years ago. Running, hopping, panting and somehow catching up with client meets. I feel exhausted like every other day. Yet, tomorrow would be weekend and so a day to solemnize my youth. On the whole, I spend my weekends relaxing and savoring delicious dishes. This weekend I had planned to take an attempt at Indonesian delicacies like Nasi goreng or Mee goreng. I dawdle down the street thinking about all the dishes I would like to try, and somehow find myself at the entrance of The Panda Park.

The scene in the park is one of pleasing animation. Red, pink and yellow marigolds sway in evening breeze greeting visitors. White lilies and jasmine sweeten up the air. Lively-energetic kids run, shout and play to their heart’s content. Some of them sit on the merry go round a look of ecstasy on their face while others swing high up floating in the air. I sit on a wooden slats bench near the swing and hear a mother coaxing her kid to halt her swinging. The more her mother cajoled her to come down, the more she grew determined and pushed herself higher giggling with happiness-This is childhood, a promised land, a heavenly land. A land of pure love, innocence and happiness. A long forgotten land.

In childhood all you worry about is school, games and toffees. Schools as I knew than comprised of yellow walls, lunchboxes and two teachers, Miss Reshma and Mr. Gautam. Miss Reshma was an amiable, attentive and gentle lady in her twenties. She had kind eyes and a loving aura that made us feel at home. She used to teach us to read and write. She would sing the alphabets and we sang back along with her. We sang a lot in her classes. We sang the alphabet song, Twinkle Twinkle, Humpty Dumpty and Jack and Jill. After we grew up a little, we were made to write on black slates with slate pencil .Miss Reshma would make margins on our slates and then teach us writing patiently, adeptly and artfully. We basked in her presence, her sweet rosy scent an insignia of her tender ways. On days the final bell rang with her class we would wave and kiss her goodbye.

Mr. Gautam on the other hand was a bad tempered hostile teacher and looked a lot like a walrus. He used to teach us to draw. Often he would draw a mango or a tomato on the board and ask us to copy the same. Sometimes he would ask us to bring color papers, scissor and glue to perform craft work. Any mistake on our part or any insincerity in our actions would result in angry patting on our palms with a heavy ruler. I was very scared of Mr. Gautam and his ruler. Fear inspired me to always complete his work on time but without much pleasure.

On a hot summer day, one evening I was trying to complete a poppy for homework that Mr. Gautam had assigned. It felt like a sword battle to me wherein I couldn’t even lift a sword to save my life. After a lot of trial and error I threw the pencil sword from my hand in resignation. The petals were rather mismatched. One was very fat and plump while another looked like it could fall out of the flower. I showed my mother my work as was customary. She heaved a disappointed sigh and asked ‘Don’t you enjoy drawing darling?’

‘I like to draw, its only Button sir whom I don’t like.’ I told her.

‘Who is Button sir?’ my brother interrupted his face screwed up in concentration trying to remember.

‘Our drawing teacher, the one who has a potbelly’ I tried to help him remember.

‘Goodness! You named him Mr. Button?’ he laughed.

‘I didn’t name him, his mother named him that’ I informed him all too knowingly.

‘His mother named him Gautam not Button, Oh god you are stupid’ he laughed louder.

My mother reprimanded him and told him not to call me stupid. ’It’s a mistake, you can simply correct her.’

The next weekend a new art teacher came to our home. He was nothing like Mr. Gautam. He was very lean, towering over everyone and liked to joke a lot. He had long laugh lines that creased from the corner of his eyes all the way down to his beard. Drawing and painting was now became my favorite pastime. Even drawing something as simple as a brinjal or a potato was fascinating. The mangoes now were no longer only pale yellow but had a dash of warm orange as well. Mr. Gautam saw my interest grow and applauded himself for it. He thought it was his ruler that had everyone learning everything quickly. I kept my mouth shut least he patted my palm with the wooden ruler.

 Deepak, Kartik and Iqbal joined us to learn from my drawing coach. My brother did not care much about drawing but he too took lessons from the new tutor. Kartik and Iqbal were younger and Deepak was the same age as I was. He was a new neighbor and lived in the last plot of our lane. Iqbal and Kartik lived in Refinery lane. We made a great team and played together every evening.

Evening games mostly included fell running and the lock and key game. Deepak was the most outspoken and energetic child. He would make us stand in a line and make sure that no one put their toe out of the boundary while starting off. We would run up the hill at the word ‘Go’ which was also quiet often said by Deepak. I now know why Deepak always won the races! Iqbal was the funny friend in our group. Once during our drawing lessons we were having a chat about black roses and how we had never seen any. Iqbal swore that he had seen black roses. We argued that it only grew in Halfeti district of Turkey and we had never been to Turkey all our life. Our teacher laughed and told us we couldn’t use the phrase ‘All our life’. We could not understand what he meant. After arguing and fighting a lot Iqbal showed us the black rose. It was a rose he had drawn. We had a good laugh and thought it was a very good joke. I laugh out loud recalling Iqbal and the black rose.

I get up from the park bench, stretch and then amble down the pebble pavement. As I move out of the park and walk along the park boundary, I see four children engaged in a turf war over the broken wall in one corner. One of the boys pushes his two companions to get a better view. A sudden epiphany strikes my mind and the smile slides off my face. Even when I was laughing, playing and drawing along with my friends, a lone girl had always stood by and watched us play. Sometimes she giggled and cheered us on but never joined our game. She often used a metal brush to brighten up the flower pots or to make pebbled floor look more pristine.

Childhood was not her heaven.