I read a piece of news today; a small news item in a corner.
I could have skipped it. But there was this face of a cute child. He found his
space in news by his death. Birth of a child may be a familial event but the
death of it becomes a public event. We too are like that. Many of us come to
this earth hardly people knowing about it. But some of us, when our part is
played well or ill and it is time to remove the grease paint from face, death
could be an event that people celebrate or mourn. When miscreants kick the
bucket people rejoice and when the pious ones depart even the nation mourns.
There are some places in our country (also elsewhere in the world) where death
is celebrated irrespective of the deceased person’s social standing. They take
the dead body in a regal procession; death is a joker as the bard had said, but
not always. Death is an event provided the dead body is found out. Finding out
a mass grave is a historical event. Death of the powerful and affluent could
change the course of history. At the same time, deaths of the ordinary people
also could change the very narrative of history. In our own humble ways, we too
contribute to the making of history, if not by life, surely by death.
The child in the news paper was bitten by a snake yesterday.
His grandmother had taken him to the courtyard to collect some coconuts. She
made him stand under a coconut tree. For a three year old child he was too
obedient. He did not move from there. A slimy creature bit him. He did not
raise an alarm. He stood there wondering at the creature that had left two red
spots on his leg. When his grandmother came back, he told her that he was
bitten by a snake. Horrified, she rushed him to the hospital. But by that time
he was gone. I read that news again and again. I could not contain my tears. I
was in a train, travelling to another district to attend a meeting. The morning
was bright and the air was cool. The coach was full but I felt some kind of
emptiness. I read the news again. I was just imagining that scene. A child, who
did not know what a snake meant stood there and received the sting of those poisonous
fangs. He could be a child who took his death so lightly and happily. It must
be a sort of deliverance for him; who knows.
( a scene from Mischief Makers, Truffaut's film)
Children are like that, innocent and receiving; but not
always. They could be caring and at the same time irritating and insulting.
They could bring out that criminal hidden inside you by their insistent and
persistent mischief. They could be truant and wayward. But what makes them
distinct from the grownups is their ability to receive. They could receive even
a snake bite without any complaint. They do not suspect people and creatures. Children
do not anticipate danger. They could face an atomic explosion right in front of
their eyes with a smile. What make them scared are the frightened faces of
their parents. If parents stand smiling, children also would smile. They would
overcome hardships if at all they feel, by sleeping. They will sleep till they
find themselves ready to face the reality. By that time the atrocious events
might have taken place. If there is a loving being around, they would not even
cry. Even if they cry, they do so because they do not know how to explain the
inexplicable.
The other day, a mother and two children got into the same
bus which I was travelling in to the city. The bus was rather empty. But as the
young mother could not handle both the small boys, she rushed one of them to my
seat which could accommodate three and she sat next to the child with the other
child on her lap. The moment bus moved the child on her lap fell asleep. I knew
that the next was the other one’s turn. Sooner than later I felt that small
burden on my side. I smiled and looked at him. He had already gone into a deep
sleep. His mother was embarrassed. She was looking at me with apologetic eyes
and was making vain efforts to pull him away while balancing the other child on
her lap. I told her that it was okay. I let him sleep on my side and later when
my stop came I took him up, laid him on the seat which had now become a small
bed of sorts and came out. Today, in the train, while coming from the meeting,
I saw a four year old child coming with his father and finding his nest on the
lap of a young man in his early twenties and sleeping away as if it was his
mother’s lap. Perhaps, what attracted me most was the young man’s selfless act
of cuddling the child to his chest as if he was his mother.
( a female singer in an Indian train- representational purpose only)
Then came a song, accompanied by the rhythm of a crude
device made out of two pieces of stone. The singer was a woman and the voice
was a disembodied voice. I could not connect the voice with the woman. Her
voice was shrill and she sang all the songs in the same tune. The tapping of
the stone pieces was felt like another track. Her voice was just walking over
that track, lazy and wailing. She sang the usual songs; Tujhe Dekha to yeh
jaana sanam et al. The original tune has been forgotten. I was reading the
history of the Saint Chavara Kuriakose who was instrumental in establishing the
first nunnery in Kerala in 1866. I had just read a line from his teaching that
none should be sent back without giving alms if they had come seeking help.
Suddenly a small child, perhaps three year old, appeared in front of me. She
was holding a bunch of coins in her little fist and the other hand had a
fistful of ten rupees notes. I took out a two rupees coin and pushed into her
right fist. What amused me was her unaffected stance. She had pride in her eyes
and I heard a feeble humming. She was singing along with her mother! I trained
my ears; yes she was singing along with her mother, perhaps much better than
her. Suddenly, time came and engulfed me. I could see the future clearly. Some other
place and some other train, a young girl is seen singing the same song and
another girl child going around collecting money. It is a never ending cycle.
And some miracle could happen. A music director or a film maker or some
philanthropist must be traveling by that train. They could change her life.
Suddenly the train changed tracks. I was woken up from my day dreaming. I could
see each person travelling in that compartment, holding a small child resembling
him/herself, in his or her lap, carefully and with a lot of love.
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