Before you read this, read:
It took me only a split second to realize what
had happened. And the moment I did, I bundled up all the energy I had, wrenched
my face out of his grasp, raced up the stairs, banged at the door, and—when let in—began to sob uncontrollably.
Evidently, that man/boy/hooligan was shrewd
and cunning. He knew I would run had he to make a noise. So he altered his line
of attack: He used a casual conversational tone—a
tone he knew I would readily respond to.
I sobbed as if I were dead and I was looking
at my body in a coffin. Yes, it seems too operatic a description; but had you
to see me then, you would have said the same thing. My tears drowned my
eyesight into a watery film that refused to identify anyone. So who consoled me
or who told me to be careful the next time I don’t remember. My right to be
free of colour was violated and I would not take it lightly.
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| Photo credit: Foter.com |
I sobbed all afternoon and sulked the evening
away. What happened thereafter is a bit of a blur. I can see figures in the
house—most probably Mother and Grandfather—bent towards me as if to explain
that these things happen and one must take them in one’s stride. I can also see
the tubelight hanging from the ceiling and trying to throw some light on
another set of figures—Father and Grandfather perhaps—talking with the help of
a whole lot of hand gestures. They discuss what happened and look at me to join
them as if by participating in that discussion, the incident would melt away.
I think I turned down that invitation to that
discussion and sulked my way through dinner as well. Late that night, I made my
bed in the hall and drew a covering over me. I could hear my parents letting
their conversation sleep as they fell prey to sleep. My sister was half asleep
down on the mattress next to them. Grandfather had already begun to snore.
I shifted the weight of my right heel on to my
left shin. And then, I felt the exhaustion of the day engulf my thoughts. My
right forearm was on my head as I wondered why did that happen to me. Why was
it that those boys/men/hooligans could not leave me alone? After all, what had
I done to them? I had feared them for they misbehaved with practically everyone
around and always kept out of their way. I had smiled at them even when I did
not want to and put my head down and looked away when they were involved in
brawls either in the chawl or outside.
I had, in fact, been very very careful to
direct trouble far away from me. And yet, here was I thinking about those very
men/boys/hooligans I had resolved to keep away from. My thinking then descended
into fear. A deep intense fear: What if that fellow did that again? What if I
come across him on the stairs and he pushes me down? How will I deal with that?
Will I be able to cry? Or will I stifle my cries when he starts to mock me and
call me a sissy boy? Will I even be able to tremble or will I have to force
myself to stay motionless just to conform to his notions of being a boy?
That moment—as I struggled to find answers to
those questions—was the one of the many times I felt fear slowly make its way
down from my head, curve its way round my neck, and spread its tentacles around
my heart. It gripped me as tight as I gripped the sheet covering my body. It
crumpled my sense of calm and put a watchdog into my soul. I did not want this
to happen again at all. And the child in me could think of only one solution:
Stay alert on the watch 24/7. The moment you see anyone of them, I said to
myself, run away or stay indoors. Just don’t let them get to you.
But then I realised there’ll be such
men/boys/hooligans everywhere. How will I deal with those? What will I do when
I start going to college? How will I deal with those ruffians who pelt trains
with balloons and water every time Holi raises its head and asks to be
celebrated?
The answer to that came to me just as soon as
those questions danced about me and it was this: Never ever set foot out of the
house during Holi.
Come what may, just don’t get out of the
house. Pretend you’re sick, fall sick for that matter, make up an excuse but
don’t get out. Stay put at home. The ones who need you will need you the day after
Holi too. And the ones who don’t need you, I said to myself, I don’t need to
bother about.
So there and then, some minutes before
midnight, I resolved to never ever show my face to the world on Holi. It was a
decision taken by a child in me. A child who was hurt by the world’s lack of
respect for his ways. A child who always strove to keep trouble at bay and who
always did put others before himself.
I think I held on to this decision up unto
this day because of the decision maker: He was pure of heart and wanted and
meant no harm. And his decision, taken with an obvious childlike innocence out
of the need to protect his own soul, needed to be abided by.
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| Photo credit: The Photo Journey via Foter.com / CC BY |
Not many understand this. You may not understand
this either. “After all,” a colleague said to me some years ago, “it’s colour!
You can wash it off! What a big fuss you make about it, really?!”
True, you can
wash it off; and yes, a week later, people will have forgotten about it all and
whined about Mumbai’s trains and real estate.
What remain—for
a long time thereafter—are
the stains of being forced into doing something I never ever wanted to of my
own free will. Those stains rankle as much as those superficial lunch-break
conversations that force you to smile and not have an opinion.
And after all I have been through, I know for sure that those stains and that rankling I do not want
to get acquainted with ever again.
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