Growing up in India - A Story

GROWING UP IN INDIA – My Diary

Prologue

Idiots, have provided me only one window and that too is wrung up with iron bars and placed in the top most perimeter of the 12 X 12 room. I simmer with primal anger, as I look around, a filthy corner in the soiled flooring intended for my basic toilet needs; a broken bed and a dust laden mattress, fractured in as many places as can be, a stained sheet and a plate of world’ most horrible food heaped on a plate in front of me. I heard about the tax payer’s money being invested in prison welfare but somebody please tell them that even prisoners like me don’t get the tax payer’s money’s worth. I wonder where most of it gets drained out. I cannot get my books to read, they feel the subject is too violent for inmates like me, bloody monsters, having fun at my cost.

Six Months Ago

The sun streams across my window and the glass scatters the rays all over my room. Another sunny morning, one more tiring day, I think to myself. I don’t know why Abba had to, of all the places, have a restaurant here, however considering that this eatery turned Dhaba turned restaurant has been with the family for ages, I cannot blame him much. My dad passed away two years ago and left me this Royal restaurant in a small Indian town. It is still a mystery to me, how he survived a damaged liver for all these years, I had mentally prepared myself long ago. The day mom died, I was barely three years old. My father took to drinking like religion and he religiously courted death since then. I miss Nikki, my ex-girlfriend, but she is happily married enough to ever think about me.

My Dad left his country and his beloved legacy – the restaurant, six decades ago and made a house in Canada; a house which was never destined to become a home. My mother, a simple woman died during childbirth, or so everybody believes but the real truth is that my father killed her. My father was known for his bad temper and I carry his lineage forward. Nikki left me because I hit her in a fit of fury, borne out of jealousy and the fear of losing her, but I did lose her eventually; I feel like a Hulk at times, my anger knows me better than I know my anger. It comes up silently and possesses me and I don’t know how to turn it off. I have embittered friends, many enemies and practically no one to call my own. At thirty, I don’t know if I have gained anything else apart from my years and frown lines. I am not a bad person but isn’t that what everyone says about themselves. But often I think to myself, at least my anger is mine, and what is there to lose that I haven’t lost already.

Royal Restaurant

The restaurant is not big; it has ten tables for two and five tables for a family, six waiters, three chefs and two managers who come in shifts. I never wanted this for myself though, I wanted to vent out in carving wood into things of utility, used to adorn the homes people make.

I reach the restaurant at eleven thirty; the manager is already operating by then. I see a couple of men taking breakfast which their wives could have cooked for them. But all they want is to escape from their family troubles, nagging wives and bad bosses. Me, I am a bad boss myself; I know my staff is needy, if they had not been in dire need of a regular income, they would have left me and my restaurant long back. They frown at me and utter a scared little good morning, I don’t answer them back; I hate them. I don’t interact with my customers, I cannot afford them becoming displeased with my source of income. And moreover it is the only time that I get to see people although I don’t like to at times, but on some occasions, it is very pacifying.

Today it is very hot and the air conditioner seems to be in a holiday mode. I am irritated at the Safaiwala, who is again using the same worn out shred of cloth to clean the tables, these bloody Indians will never learn. I shout at him and he hurries into the small store room to bring a sponge and some surface cleaning lotion. My chef has overdone my omelette and is sweating profusely standing in front of me. Sweaty pig, he can’t even make an omelette properly. He is all I can afford, as this small town hasn’t made me financially comfortable yet.

It is dusk now and things are moving in slow motion since morning. I want to go home but today I cannot. My manager has a freaking birthday party to throw for his daughter and I will have to shut shop today. Yelling and screaming my hours pass somehow. I order a bottle of scotch and gulp neat pegs down my throat.

Midnight

I don’t know when I dozed off, but suddenly I found my chef, the weakling, in the tiniest of the voice trying to wake me up. I felt like a lion in front of him. Red eyed and sluggish I told him to go home and I would wait for some more time to sober up, before I am able to drive home.

Around midnight, I woke up with a start. Was it a noise I had heard or my mind was playing tricks on me? The neighborhood was a constant prey to thieves and burglars and I felt angry, angry like never before. Some stupid thief had dared to rob my money, I will teach him a lesson that he will never forget. Stealthily, I stepped inside my kitchen, ah yes! I could hear the rustling of some vessels. I yelled, and someone jumped out of the window. The stupid chef had forgotten to latch the big window. I will kill him tomorrow, but now it is this thief’s turn and I ran outside, determined to catch him, before he could disappear into the darkness.

I saw him running on the gravel outside and chased him. When he did not stop, I picked up a brick lying on the manhole cover and flung it at him with all my fury and the pent up rage. I intended to kill him, and I targeted his skull. Before I knew it, the man was huddled on the ground, clutching his head with his hands; I picked up another brick and threw at him. The man let out a groan and then it was silence all around, no movement; I walked over to him, my hands still shaking with pure anger.  Had he not been dead, I would have hit him again. But he was not breathing, I searched him, his pockets, and the rag he wore and there in all honesty lay crumpled on the ground, what he had dared, steal from my restaurant. They were two pieces of stale buns which the chef had forgotten to put out for the dogs. Then everything happened very quickly, and before long I found myself in the police station.

Prison

The man had died on the spot, media and the police looked at me with contempt. Yes they would dare do that to me, seeing me chained. I don’t know what all words media has called me, what all names have I been given. I don’t know, I don’t care about these idiots and what they know or what they think of me. I was sentenced 10 years in prison and there goes my life, I thought. Prison was hell, and everyday served as a reminder. I was kept in an isolated cell, as I was dangerous. Inmates tried talking to me but I would glare them away. I did not want small talk; I did not want any talk, or those stupid religious books they gave me to read. I spent my days looking at the single window in my cell (as if looks could snap those iron bars) or looking at the sneaky smelly rats in my cell which scampered around unaware and unafraid. Each time the constable came to push the nasty pile of food in my cell, I contemplated wringing his neck and escaping from the prison. I don’t know why I never tried it though; I had become a quiet monster as they called me.  The restaurant had been shut down and anyway I had nobody who would visit me in the prison, so I was on my own.

A Visitor

I had an unexpected visitor one day, a small girl dressed in greasy torn clothes. The visiting hours were on, so the constable brought her to meet me, across the glass. Luckily there were a few other visitors and I was able to hear what that girl said to me. On other days, even if you would be screaming your throat hoarse, your visitors would not be able to hear you, amidst the din of everyone shouting to their imprisoned relatives respectively. Even prisons, in India are overcrowded you see, everywhere you see, there are all kinds of people. In Canada though, I had been locked up for two nights, when Nikki had filed a complaint against me. But then she had come to see me (the last time I would ever see her) and she had spoken quietly on the phone, one on the each end of the glass wall that separated us. Prisons were also well equipped in Canada, but in our country, well, who would spend time, money and effort on us prisoners when the government did not have the sprit to do so for normal citizens.

Anyway back to the little girl. This little girl, had a streaked, unwashed face and unkempt dirty hair tied into a pony tail with a filthy red ribbon. She looked barely ten years old though her eyes looked as vacant and as pained as someone who had lived their entire life.

And this is what she said to me:- “You have killed my Rehman Chacha, he was the only one who watched out for me, I am an orphan and I found him in the night shelter. Since then, he was the only one who would place a hand on my head and tell me that one day everything will be okay. The night he did not come back, was the night, when the other boys in my shelter raped me in turn, hit me and threw me in the old tunnel. I spent days and nights, hiding in the dark tunnel, wondering why Rehman Chacha had not come in the shelter that night, to protect me from those boys, like always. He was the only family I had and he deserted me and I despised him for doing this to me. But then, I got to know from someone, that you had killed him and there had been two pieces of bread lying next to him, when his dead body was found. That bread, you see, he was bringing it for me. I was running high fever since some days and had not eaten anything. Ranga had taken from me, whatever I earned from begging at the signal and I could not go to work for the next few days. But I am not going to waste my time over you; today I will lie on the railway tracks till the moment some train passes over me. I will go to my Rehman Chacha, wherever he is, heaven or hell. I just wanted to tell you that my Rehman Chacha was not a thief.”

And as quietly she had come, she was gone but she had left something, that feeling of dread inside me, choking me, clasping my breath. It was as if my face was frozen and I could not react, frown or cry. I could not sleep that night, nothing had tormented me this badly in the past, not when I cremated my father, nor when Nikki had left me and got married or when the world had ganged up against me and had called me a ruthless brute.

Ten Days Later

That girl has emptied me of whatever good I ever thought of myself, I hate myself. I killed a poor old man who was stealing bread for an orphan ailing girl. And because of me those vultures of men, scraped away the girl and maybe today she is lying somewhere on the tracks, and the stray dogs feeding off whatever remains of her.

For days now, I haven’t been able to eat, the thought of eating a piece of bread is heart wrenching, like someone has stabbed my heart and is now slowly turning the knife inside. Crying my heart out has not helped, nor have those religious books.  I just stare emptily at the wall in front of me, sleep evades me and each moment is a blur. I feel as if the world is moving at light speed and I am the only one who is still and watching them from a another universe. The pain is unrelenting and I am all alone. Oh God, what have I done? Will you ever be able to forgive me, I am lying in prison but how do I repent for my ghastly deeds. Should I kill myself, no that would be too easy, what do I do? Should I appeal for a death sentence to the high court? What should I do, what will relieve me of my pain? Am I really the Quiet Monster?

Epilogue

Today I stand a free man, looking at those walls which captured me, imprisoned me, secured me and changed me. I have been let off for good behaviour and freed in eight years instead of the complete term of ten years that I was sentenced to.

I turn around at the world outside the prison and it tempts me and yet manages to scare me. Will I be able to do justice to my goal, will I be able to survive on my own and sustain the human being in me. I unlearnt and learnt the value of life and I spent days, months and years honing up my carpentry skills.

I have made money in the prison, my first income that I am proud of, the one which has been reaped out of repentance, tears and goodwill. I have trained other prisoners too, in the art of making furniture. An NGO has tied up with a furniture dealer to sell to the people, what we make. And I hear the brand PRISON MADE is bringing good returns to the dealer. I have about thirty thousand that I have earned, handed over to me in a white envelope by the prison superintendant along with my clothes and other valuables.

I have already written to my restaurant manager, he has come forward to support me in my mission. I will turn my restaurant into an orphanage and make one workshop for carpentry; I will train the children to make good sturdy furniture. The dealer from the prison has already offered me a 50% deal, only because he is a good man and he thinks I am too.

I was unable to save that girl or undo what I did to her Rehman Chacha but I will try not to allow this to happen to any child again. I still am haunted by her face at times and I wake up drenched in sweat and with the heartbreaking feeling that I killed her childhood, her protector and in the end her too. I still feel angry, angry with myself and those boys but now my anger does not come out on people, it comes out on the wood. I have mellowed down and I know that I will never allow the monster to surface again. My orphanage is my hope, my redemption. And I do fervently wish that someday, I will be able to gain that little girl’s forgiveness, wherever she is and then I shall forgive myself too.

Nikki is also helping me in running this orphanage; she has already registered it under the Societies Registration Act. Her husband has shifted to India for business and she has decided to help me, realize my dream. After all I did to her, she has forgiven me. I have been brandished as a prisoner, but she will be the face of NANHI AASHA. Yes, that is the name for the orphanage. I have also applied for a government grant to run this orphanage.

No orphan will become a beggar at the signal or the road from now on to earn a meal and spend the night in namesake of the shelter, scared every moment that something, someone vile, will attack them. Oscar Wilde says that, experience is the name everyone gives to their mistakes, I have committed gravest of the sin and yet this experience has given birth to a whole new me with a whole new purpose.

Who says I was born and brought up in Canada and came to India as an adult, I know, I have been born in the small town prison and have grown up in India. Grown up into a human being…..