Students make the Teacher : The Portrait Gallery

 

DESTRUCTIVE LONGING TO BELONG- Confessions of a Teacher: 2

 

I WAS Chairman of Education at NID then. 

One morning, the security guard from the main gate called me to say that a beggar wanted to see me and that he claimed he was my student. When he came to my room, I was shocked. He was in dirty, tattered clothes; uncombed hair, shabby beard, hollow cheeks and lifeless eyes. I could not recognize the beggar.

'I am Gafoor', he said. 

My mind went back a few years. Gafoor Mohammed was a brilliant student when he was admitted into NID. The admission panel was amazed at his excellent drawing skills and superb aesthetic sense. He could not speak a word of English since his parents could not afford the costs of an English-medium school. His father was a mechanic in a small company in Pune. The boss of the company who saw the boy's wonderful self-taught drawing and painting skills encouraged his father to apply to NID, the premier institute of design in India. 

Gafoor's poor family lived in a chawl, in a single room. Once his friends had visited him and half way through the conversation Gafoor had said, 'Hey guys, don't turn back. My sister is taking bath there.' That room was also the family bathroom, bedroom, kitchen and living room: all in one. They were so poor. 

We admitted Gafoor as a first rank candidate and recommended conversational English classes for him to take. His first semester jury went very well and he seemed to have learnt some English. However, surprisingly in the next jury his performance suddenly dropped very low. We attributed this to possible initial problems in adjusting to his class here his peers were all fluent English- speaking, guitar-playing, party- going, smart and elite students. His counselor said that Gafoor would take time to mix with his peers but would pick up in time. We waited. 

Two years passed and the teachers started complaining of his absence in class. He had no friends in the institute, so we could not get any clue about his real problem. He started missing fee payments saying his family was having financial troubles. The warden however found out that he was receiving money orders from home. We gave warnings but did not want to dismiss him from the school considering how the poor family's hopes were pinned on him.

One late night, the security of the hostel made an emergency call to me to say that, a bleeding body of a student had been thrown in front of the gate and the assailants escaped in a rickshaw. I rushed there and found Gafoor lying in front of the gate, in a pool of blood, beaten to pulp, bleeding and unconscious. We admitted him in a hospital. 

Later enquiries revealed that Gafoor had desperately wanted to belong to an elite peer group. He could not learn to speak English or play guitar or dance but he fell easy victim to superficial short cuts to elitism such as smoking, drinking and before he knew it, drugs. He became an addict and started missing classes and drooling in stupor. He did not have the money even after spending away all the fees money for it. So he borrowed heavily and could not pay back. The drug peddlers beat him and dumped him. 

After he was discharged from the hospital, I sent him to a psychotherapist but in vain. He would not go. He would slip away somehow even if I sent another student to accompany him to the therapist. 

Finally, I had to give up. 

I called his father to take him away from NID and to admit him in a good de-addiction centre. His father was heartbroken and fell on my feet. 

After one year, I was seeing Gafoor again. His condition and his mumbled talk told me that he had escaped from the de-addiction centre and had come to hide here. He was starving and had not a single rupee on him. 

I sheltered him at my place, till his father came and took him away. That was the last I saw of him.

The Flood : Short Story

 

The rain kept pouring incessantly.

The streets were getting flooded.

Through the threads of water, the world was looking blurred.

What would happen if it continued even more?

My mind raced back few years; to a similar rainy night.

A phone call from my village. Far away in the south.

Ramanamma’s desperate voice.

 “Your brother Krishnamurty is sinking. Doctors lost hope. I am prepared. His voice is gone. But his tears tell me his last wish. He is pining to see Madhubabu. What can I do?” She choked…. 

Madhubabu!!

 Where can I find him and bring him to his dying father? Where can anybody find him?

 My cousin brother Krishnamurty was the first graduate of our tiny village Gunnathota Valasa.

He became the Head master of a High school in Raajaam village and was loved by the village people. A person who gives knowledge to their children and makes them earn a living is more than God to the illiterate villagers. He was married to Ramanamma. The couple did not have children for long time. After many vratams, visits to holy temples and long wait, they were blessed with a son.

The boy was named “Madhu”, the honey. The grandfather added “Babu”, an endearing word in Telugu, which means “Master” or “Little Master”.

Madhubabu was pampered by everybody in the family. The moment the child looked at something with interest, the next day it would be in his hands, be it a sweet or a toy. If he threw it and broke it, which he often did, the father would not scold him. On the contrary, he would hug him and shout with joy “Look, Ramanamma. How my son is teasing me. He is simply adorable.” If the child urinated in his arms, he would kiss him and say “Look. He did abhishekkam to me! Such a darling, I love him so much”.

 They employed a special Daadi to look after the boy the whole day.

Madhubabu was not sent to the school in the village. Chee! Not the ordinary school with ordinary kids. My son must get the best in everything. So, he was sent to the most reputed Maharajah school in the town of Bobbili, two kilometers away from the village. A cycle rickshaw was arranged to pick up and drop Madhubabu.

Even before he reached teenage, an expensive scooter was bought and given to him. It gave lot of freedom of movement to Madhu.

 Soon, Madhubabu got attracted to the glamour of films. He started spending more time watching whatever film came to Bobbili and other nearby towns.

 Krishnamurty did not mind. Madhu was still a child. We should not curb a child’s joy. He gave standing orders to his wife never to say no whenever Madhu asked for money. A child must have his fun, is it not?

 Every teenager falls in love. It is part of growing up, Madhubabu also did. But –

He did not fall in love with a girl. Not with a boy, not with a pet. He fell in love with the ‘larger than life’ image! He fell in love with a silver screen hero.

 Teenage Madhu was infatuated with Chiranjeevi, a Telugu film Superstar. He showed his commitment to his love by joining as a life member of the Chiranjeevi Fan Club. Soon he became a very active and dedicated member.

The members voluntarily promote Hero Chiranjeevi, almost fanatically. They will treat well all those who praise Chiranjeevi but beat up anybody who says even one word that is critical of him. To see Chiranjeevi’s film on the day of its release, first day, first show, is their religion. They block tickets en-masse for that show. During the show, as soon as the first Chiranjeevi scene appears on screen, they throw garlands on the screen, break coconuts, offer dhupam, deepam, naivedyam and aarati as you do to a deity in a temple. There will be more pomp and show, screaming slogans and whistling and jump dancing. It is hero worship, literally.

 Nobody dares to object, not even the theater owner, because he knows if he does, his hall will be burnt to cinders the very same day and nobody will dare say who did it.       Madhu started sleeping late and started neglecting studies. His marks came tumbling down. But Krishnamurty’s love did not allow him to scold the son. “He is still young. If he fails a year or two, what does it matter? He will pass later. Let him enjoy now. That is important for us,” Krishnamurty would say to his wife.

One day, early morning, the mother went to Madhu’s room with a cup of coffee to wake him up and to get him ready for school. He was not in bed.

She called and searched all over the house in vain. No one in the village knew his whereabouts. They discovered soon that his rucksack was missing. Every relative and friend was phoned but all answered in the negative.

Where is he? Is he fine? Why did he leave the house suddenly without telling anyone?

The whole family was drowned in grief.

Krishnamurty was shocked. He did not bite a morsel nor had a wink of sleep the whole day. He begged every friend and relative to search for Madhu. Enquiries were made at Bobbili Railway station and the bus station.

 At last there was a tiny bit of news and hope. Some shop keeper at the bus station said he had seen a boy of that description that morning with a rucksack. He could not say which bus he took.

 Krishnamurty now started worrying for the safety of his son. How would the poor boy survive without any money and without anybody to help? How could he travel without enough money for the ticket, for food and for stay? Who would wake him up from bed early in the morning with a fresh cup of coffee? If only he had asked him, he would have provided him money without any questions. Why did he not ask?

After three agonizing days, an answer was found.

The head clerk of the high school where Krishnamurty was Headmaster came to him and produced a small chit with Madhu’s signature for receiving 20,000 rupees. Three days earlier, as the head clerk had to go out of station on emergency for a few days, he had brought that cash to be kept in safe custody at the Head master’s house, as it was the custom.

Since he was in a hurry and could not find Krishnamurty, he had handed the amount over to Madhu to be passed on to the father.

 Krishnamurty was relieved a bit. His son was not starving. He told the clerk not to reveal this to any one; otherwise he would be sacked from his job. No one should know that his son ran away with school money. Poor Madhu wanted to have fun. After all, my money is his money. How dare you call it stealing? He gave a formal receipt to the clerk with his own signature. He performed an elaborate yagna at the temple for the comfort and safe return of his son.

The search was intensified. Ten agonizing days passed.

Then there was news!

A friend of Madhu’s informed them that Madhu was in Guntur, and that he could give the address. But his father should not go to pick him up; otherwise, he would not be found at the address given. The money he took away was spent and exhausted. He was afraid to come home and could not afford the ticket. What was he doing there?

“Don’t know, uncle” the friend said. But after everybody insisted and threatened to hand him over to the police, the boy broke his silence.

 “He asked me not to tell you. I swore to him. He did“Shata Ksheeraabhishekam” to Chiranjeevi in Guntur”. Hundred kalashas (pots) of milk were poured on the huge, thirty feet, plywood cut out of the hero Chiranjeevi on the main street.

Krishnamurthy could not believe his ears!

But first he had to rescue his son and bring him home. He arranged a group immediately to go to Guntur and fetch his son. But they were told to treat him very lovingly. No one should say one harsh word to him. No questions must be asked. On the contrary, they should praise his unique dedication to Chiranjeevi. Who would dare say it was foolish and downright stupid? My son would never do stupid things! He was born to me and he is special.

 Madhubabu was found in Guntur in a dingy lodge and was brought home. On Krishnamurty’s firm pleading, every one pretended as if nothing had happened. He was sent back to school with a medical certificate and a covering letter by his father for leave of absence!

 Krishnamurty neither reprimanded his son nor asked what he did and why he did it.  He did not want to hurt him by making him recount the event. Asking for the money was out of question!

Madhu failed in class that year and the next year too. The day when the results were announced, Madhu did not come home. A friend’s parent phoned and said that Madhu was reluctant to go home and face his parents, so he had pleaded to stay for few days with them.

Krishnamurthy met the high school authorities in Bobbili and was told that Madhu had been bunking classes regularly. Failure was inevitable. His name was being removed from the rolls.

 Krishnamurthy sent a relative to persuade Madhu to come home.

Neither he nor Ramanamma nor anyone else would say a thing. He warned his mother also not to say a single word. Real love forgives everything, does it not? I must be so nice to him because he is already depressed due to his failure. “We should cheer him up,” he told Ramanamma.

After Madhu finally returned home, he went to him and hugged him. He asked his wife to make his favorite dishes that day. He brought home chocolate ice cream, which Madhu loved. While he was eating he put his hand on his shoulder and told him very soothingly: “Madhu darling. Do not feel bad. I am there for you. I love you. I support you even if you fail ten times. I will put you in another school. If no school admits you, I will teach you myself. I want to see you happy always. You need a vacation to overcome this sadness due to failure. Seeing all your friends who passed makes you feel terrible, I know.  I will give you some money. Go to your uncle in Ramavaram village near the hills. It is a beautiful place with mango gardens and sugarcane fields. Enjoy the vacation well. Watch movies. A change of place will do you a lot of good. Uncle’s family is very fond of you. They will take very good care of you. You can do anything you want. Ok?”

 Madhubabu was silent.

All the time he lowered his head. He did not even nod his head.

Tears flowed from his eyes, quietly.

He was sent to an uncle’s place in Raamavaram with enough money, dresses and sweets.

Madhu still remained quiet.

He was confused. His looks were vacant. He wandered aimlessly here and there in the village. Uncle’s children took him to the fields and to their mango garden to cheer him up. It was in vain. He would not even go to see the movies. He would not touch his favorite dishes. Neither the delicious ripe yellow mangoes nor playing with other boys and girls lifted his spirits. Madhubabu seemed lost. He was listless.

Thus four days passed.

On the fifth day, in the early hours of dawn, his body was found floating in the village well on the outskirts.

 He had left the uncle’s place the previous night, saying he would spend the night with a friend in the next village. The police later recovered a suicide note, in Madhu’s own handwriting, under a stone nearby. The note simply read:

“No one except me is responsible for my suicide”.

PS: “Dear Nanna and Amma, I am not worthy of being your son. Forgive me if you can.

Yours insincerely…….. (Signed) MadhuBabu” 

Krishnamurty’s heart was broken. His loud wailing resounds in my ears even now.

“What have I not given you my son, to punish me thus? I always had forgiven you. Never hurt you a bit. Have I not looked after you with unlimited love? Why? Why? I already assured you about your schooling. Then? why? You could have told me what you wanted!”

 When I heard on the phone about Madhubabu’s suicide, I happened to be in the company of my learned friend Pulin Garg, a well-known psycho-analyst. I could not resist from narrating the incident to Pulin. I wanted to know the reason why Madhubabu committed suicide in spite of such a tolerant and exceptionally loving father. He was the ideal parent! Every parent wishes to be like that: loving, giving, forgiving and enduring.

Pulin heard me fully and calmly. He stared hard at me.

There was a brief silence.

When he replied, I was startled by the stark brutality of the reply.

 “The damn father killed the son.”

Before I recovered, Pulin got up and left, to save me the explanation.

 That night I had a dream.

I was passing through a vast, parched field. I was alone. I came across an abandoned well. I went nearer. A voice from the well suddenly caught me unawares. The weeping ghostly voice said: “Dad, Dad, slap me, dad, slap me. I want to live, dad. Please slap me.”

I fled from there: I ran through the fields. The voice haunted me. I ran and ran. I kept running. Away and away.

…  ……  …..

 Ramanamma’s phone call today brought me back to reality.

Lady Macbeth’s guilt is one kind, Madhubabu’s another.

The Rain kept pouring incessantly.

The streets were getting flooded.

Through the threads of water, the world was looking blurred.

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Freedom from Mental Problems

(Prologue: In 2019, few months after I left DJ Academy of Design; almost all the students, walked all the way to my house to pay respects and talk to me. It was a moment I shall never forget in my life, as we talked sitting on the floor of terrace till late night. I dedicate this article as a token of my love to all of them!)

Let us start by looking at some real life incidents which establish the mind-body relationship.

Case 1: Readers Digest Report – 1985

In Germany, in a beautiful farm house near Budapest lived a small family: A teen age graduate girl and her parents. The father was a painter. Then one day the mother died and the father and daughter continued staying. The house was absolutely safe and secure and they had a hunter dog to guard.

After few months, a shocking incident happened.

Early morning the girl drove to the nearest police station, in a battered condition, with grave body injuries and complained that her father got drunk and repeatedly beaten and raped her. The police, on circumstantial evidence arrested the father and put him in Jail. The father denied the charge. But there was no way a third person could enter the house. A search of the house and a thorough medical examination of the girl, were held.

The medical report stated that there was no rape and the injuries were self inflicted.

The girl swore that she had no enmity with father and she was indeed raped by him. She gave many details of the act. Re-examination by another medical team confirmed the previous report. Lie detectors confirmed that she was not lying. What happened then?

Case 2: Medical Report – 1982

Padmini was pregnant with her first child. We took her to Doctor Anklesaria, the best gynecologist in Ahmadabad. After examining her he said that there was a big, healthy baby inside. Padmini said she would like to have natural delivery and not caesarian operation. Doctor Anklesaria laughed and answered that considering her small stature, small vaginal opening and the large size of the baby; it was absolutely impossible. God made her like that. But Padmini was adamant. The doctor emphatically said that no doctor on earth can do it.

We went to Bombay and showed Padmini to several expert doctors. All had confirmed Anklesaria’s report. But Padmini was hell bent on natural delivery.

Finally an old doctor Mehta pacified her saying that he would try his best to fulfill her wish but she should leave the final decision to him as a medical professional. Padmini agreed.

Padmini had labor pain few days before due date, but it was natural delivery! A healthy baby Sourabh was born. All doctors including Anklesaria could not believe this. How was this possible?

Case 3: Newspaper Report – 1972

In Kerala, a poor fisherman went at night to steal fish from a fenced pond and caught many fish manually. What he did not know was that he also caught a poisonous water snake, mistaking it to be an eel. The snake bit him but he thought it was a crab. He went home, slept soundly till late morning when his wife woke him up. He found the snake in the closed basket and realized that he was bitten by a deadly snake. Within minutes, the poison spread in his body and he died. Why did the poison not work for so many hours and suddenly did?

Case 4:

I fast every Saturday and will not touch any food at all.  On all other days I feel hungry and eat sumptuously but on Saturdays I will not feel hungry at all. How is this so?

Case 5:

Science confirms that a non-medical pill called “placebo” is administered saying it is the last word in the treatment of incurable diseases. It is a lie but in most cases it cures. How is it possible?

Only one answer. Subconscious mind! Thinking has tremendous power and influence over the body. Sexual thoughts cause erection; fear of a danger cause sweating or urination; thoughts of favorite food cause mouth watering and so on.

I have experienced that if I have to wake up to catch a flight at any time at night, I tell my mind clearly before going to sleep when I should wake up and it always works. It is common experience with many other people.

Based on my experience, I offer three types of freedom practices to get rid of mental problems:

1.      Freedom from Covering Up

Given the realities of social media and isolation, some degree of mental problem is common in all people. Some psychologists say that mental depression has become “addiction” and “fashionable”. Any addiction is harmful. One must realise this and should not feel self pity or seek pity.

 

Like the “emperor clothes” story, everybody is mentally ill but covering it up. The unexpressed emotion ferments inside and turns into psychosomatic illness such as insomnia, head ache, rash, fever or over tiredness, etc.  If you are afraid to talk to someone else, talk to yourself, write on a piece of paper (destroy later); sketch, paint, play music, or do anything. Any expression is theraptic. I de-stress myself by cooking sketching, writing or binding books. Of course, if the illness is severe; you should take treatment like any physical illness.

 

2.      Freedom from Inadequacy

The main reason of mental illness is “I am not up to the mark” feeling. There is nothing like a mark. It’s just media myth. Ignore it. Refuse comparison firmly. Dalai Lama could retain his wonderful smile always because he refuses to compare; smilingly. Everything, everybody is good, in their own way, Unique in their own way. Everybody is liked by somebody; nobody is liked by everybody. Dalailama also never talks of his beauty, his wealth or his super intelligence because these are superficial. Why should we give them too much importance, just because of media hype? Your name and my name are different but it does not mean your name is better than mine. Comparisons are silly and meaningless. We all know that “Beauty is in the eyes of beholder”. Don’t be a slave to social media which is deciding that for you. Why should media tell you how you should look, how you should talk, what you should eat, how you should live and so on. It is unfair on you.

 

3.      Freedom from Truth

This is hard to digest but all the five case studies I cited at the beginning prove this.

Hide truth or go beyond it. Tell your mind so strongly and affirmatively what you “want” and the mind will miraculously make it come true through your body. Placebo is a lie but the mind does not know, so works on the belief that it cures.

 

We don’t realize it but we are constantly giving auto suggestions to our mind. Our subconscious mind is our powerful servant which tries to mould you to suite whatever strong command it receives repeatedly. If a child is scolded repeatedly by her uncle that she is clumsy, her mind makes sure that she becomes clumsy; even if she is originally not.

 

Even after many years, when she is going on a bicycle, her mind reminds her that she is clumsy and make sure that she falls or she cuts her hand while cutting onions which is a simple job. You see, her mind is trying to follow her command given some time ago. “I am clumsy, as my uncle said”. The mind is programmed and will keep doing it till she consciously; strongly changes it. But if she tries to run away with “I will not ride bicycle again” she is enforcing the command; “Yes. I am clumsy”.

 

A girl dominated in childhood by someone grows up to invite predatory behavior in people around her. She is the willing sucker. In group work she works the hardest, even takes pain but finally let some others take credit. In her heart she feels bad but her mind is forcing her “free will” to get dominated. Our mind is creature of habit; even if it is hurting habit.

 

Over - admiring your friend as “gifted/best” is a comparison and has a danger of telling yourself “but in comparison I am a total shit” and the poor mind tries to make your wish come true. Anything over done is negative and has influence on subconscious. This should not be misunderstood as advising arrogance. Praising yourself publicly is arrogance but praising yourself internally is confidence.

 

 I used to wear glasses in my late forties but I hated this extra gadget stuck on my face all the time. I very strongly and crazily wished to have “eye sight without glasses”. A book by that name gave me the confidence to even wish so. Many times we are afraid to wish because it was never done, it was not truth. Our knowledge is pre-conditioning our mind.

 

But if you strongly tell and repeat even a lie and the subconscious mind makes it truth. Mohammed Ali shouted publicly “I am the greatest” and his mind made him so.  My biological age presently is 76; but I can read, write (I read & write a lot) and see without glasses! My doctor does not believe it; but it is TRUE. I told my mind that I want to read without glasses. Do you need further proof than this?!

 

So praise yourself and know that if someone is praising you, he/she is doing good to you in building your mind and body. All the Hindu ‘stotrams’ are nothing but praise of God. Even if it is a lie, accept it as long as there is no vicious motive. Your mind will work on it to make it true.

 

According to Dr.Bruce Lipton: Mind is the primary cause of illness on this planet. A gene is just a blue print but the reading of the blue print is done by electric impulses called thought. Human body is made of 50 trillion cells each carrying 1.4 volts of electricity. Since your mind is the government of your thoughts, it can change your biology. Since thoughts can be negative or positive, it is your belief that (ultimately) controls your body. If someone tells you that you are ill and you believe it, you become ill and vice versa. In Placebo effect, it is not the pill but your own positive thought that makes the body heal.

To sum up:

Mental illness is not a big deal, you are second to none, and you are phenomenal!

(Written on Teachers Day, 05.09.2020)

 

DEATH OF MY FATHER

 

(Photo Courtesy: Joginder Panghal)

I was hardly five year old then. Just started going to school in torn half pants. No shirt, no shoes, no books, just a slate and a running nose.

My mother was pregnant, due to deliver any time.

Like many good farmers, my father had the habit of getting up at early dawn, with cocks crow and walk to our rice fields and check the water flow in the canal, damage done by wild animals and growth of the crop. I sometimes used to accompany him to enjoy the cool breeze, sitting on his shoulders. But on that particular day I did not get up in time. I slept with him at night but woke up only to find his side empty and felt disappointed a little.  Little did I know that this disappointment is going to be a permanent one.

Ours was a joint family of 16 members and as the dawn approached everybody went about busy with one’s own duties.

I brushed near the bushes in the backyard and about to go for an open bath at the big clay water tub, when I heard a commotion and ran to the front door to see, half wrapped in my little towel.

What I saw shocked me!

Four neighbor farmers rushed in carrying my father on their shoulders. He was unconscious. He was laid down on a cot in the verandah and my uncle sent people on cycles to Bobbili, a small town 4km away to fetch a doctor immediately. There was no medical man in our tiny village Gunnathota Valasa. Clinic was a far cry.

My mother, adding to the trouble, started complaining of labor pains. My aunts and other ladies prevented her from knowing my father’s condition but promptly shifted her to a neighbor’s house on some pretext for having her delivery. An old, experienced village mid-wife was attending on her.

As the day progressed, my father’s condition became worse. Doctors from town were kept on being brought, in Tongas and bullock carts. My village had no motorable road. Doctors gave injections; people who knew administrated massages but in vain. There was no improvement. The patient was not in a condition to be moved and taken to the town hospital.

As a puzzled kid, I kept running from father’s sick bed to mother’s delivery room in the next house and was peeping through peoples legs; even though I got thorough scolding and slaps for coming in the way.

Our small house was brimming with villagers, doctors and those who came to see or help. Some women were already sobbing!

I could not comprehend a thing! I bunked the school but no one bothered. By evening, there was a baby cry in my mother’s labor room and some aunt patted me on my head and said that I just got a sister. There was no joy when she said it. Everyone was so preoccupied. I could not comprehend a bit.

Minutes later, as the darkness of night was looming large, there was a big commotion and loud wailing of women. My father was declared dead. I did not cry. I did not understand what it meant.

It was my first experience of a death. It was also my first experience of a birth. What an irony! One life comes into the world, another life leaves it. We blame the irony, not appreciating the natures beautiful way of balancing life.

But at that age I was too young to understand anything. “Will I sleep with my father tonight?” was my only thought I had. My father was very helpful to all farmers and field labourers and thus liked by not only people of my village but also people of all neighboring villages whose fields were next to ours. As the news of my father’s death spread, people from all neighboring villages thronged, filling our courtyard and spilling on to the streets and beyond, though it was already night.

Most of them came walking barefoot; few came in cycles, bullock carts, holding oil torches, hurricane lantarms, and battery lights. The village had no electricity. As it was the custom, the body was moved to the front yard and put on ground on a husk mattress. An oil lamp was lit on the head side in the direction of South. Devotional bhajans were organized to keep the vigil through the night.

Dumbstruck and totally ignored, I moved here and there thoroughly lost. Hungry but whom could I ask? Exhausted and aimless I fell off to sleep in some remote corner on the floor.

I felt like an orphan.

I woke up at dawn next day with the din of death ritual arrangements and increased loud wailing. Some relative noticed me at last, hugged me, cried and gave a glass of butter milk with starch water. I was hungry and gulped it without a word.

My mother was heartbroken as she got the news, she silently and uncontrollably kept weeping in the neighbor’s house. She was not allowed to see my father’s body. She was in her twenties being the second wife of my father, who divorced the first wife since she was barren.

Elaborate death rituals started. Bathing the body, sandal paste application, new clothing, garlands of flowers, bamboo stretcher, loud wailing, toms-toms, drums and mantras – the diversions to grief took place. People competed in carrying his bamboo stretcher on their shoulders. The funeral procession was the biggest I have so far seen in my life. It was like the Ratha-Yatra of Lord Jagannath.

Some relatives held me back from running after the procession to the cremation ground. I wailed and rolled on the ground but in vain.

I ran to my mother’s delivery room. My innocent baby sister was lying next to her but no one bothered to even acknowledge her birth! I kept staring at the tiny bundle of flesh. I was afraid to go near!

I overheard some aunt condemning the innocent new born saying “This girl is born and, devoured her father. What a devil? Chee!”

How cruel we are? I felt like beating up who ever said that. But I could not. I simply ran away far, far from that place!