Your past is always your past. Even if you forget it, it remembers you. I can say that with conviction today as I trek across my life. The past catches up on you in occasional flashes and at times – when least expected. The only thing more painful than being an active forgetter is to be an inert rememberer. This inertness is not self implicated but happens subconsciously as layers of time sediment itself on your life. Then suddenly like finding an old coin on the beach you stumble upon a precious bit of memory. Good times are never forgotten. It is stored always in a hidden corner to expose itself at the right time automatically. No one can erase it but it stays forgotten for some time till the true time comes.
A part of my daily chore is getting my 7 year old son ready for school. It’s the rush hour and we both try to match the supersonic speed with which clock runs during this part of the day. He stays submerged in sleep while I tediously layer him with his uniforms, his tie, his lunch pack etc. Today as I was at it my son, who doesn’t speak much during the early sleep intervened hours of the day dejectedly mentioned “Baba Arya is going away to Muscat.” Saying this he silently went on to finish his breakfast head drooping to his shoulders.
It was a while later as I stood under the shower that this conversation echoed in my ears “Baba Arya is going away to Muscat.” It was then that I could feel the pang of separation that a 7 year old could not express in as many words. This was familiar. Too familiar with something that happened to me long ago. Almost forgotten till now. I knew Arya, a shy, quiet and spectacled kid. Always the first one to be disqualified at the group games that happens at birthday parties. No one wants to share the table with him (a fact that I had learned from my son). No one wants to take him in their group (another shared fact). But for some reason my son always made it a point to write his name (albeit not the first name) in his list of invitees for his Birthday and although he would be disappointed at Arya’s slowness, something told me he liked him. An emotion that was re-confirmed by his sad announcement of Arya’s impending departure to Muscat.
As I drove to work this morning I remembered another boy just like Arya, I had met when I was my son’s age. He lived in a city that no longer exists, in a house that no longer exists, on the edge of a street that no longer exists. He lived in a time where everything was discovered, and everything was possible. A stick could be a sword; a pebble could be a diamond, a tree, a castle. His name was Joydeep Mukherjee. He was fat, he was stupid, he was dirty and he was a liability to any side in sports. So no one was keen on having him in his team or be friends with him. He sat consumed in one of the last benches of Class 3D - alone. His clothes were untidy, hair unkempt and nails dirty. He often forgot to do his homework and failed to answer the simplest of questions in the class. For which he bitterly faced the scorn and ridicule of the students and the teachers alike. He answered all that indignity with his silence and quirky expressionless eyes that stared into a dimension that probably only he could see.
Anybody who has survived his childhood has enough information about life to last him the rest of his days. The first lesson you learn is that anywhere in the world it is always a crime to be different. A crime that you have not committed, but fate had cruelly imposed it on you. All you are left to do is but submit to its tyranny. Its extent can only be judged by the unfortunate ones who have been subjected to it. Even in grade 3 its demonic characteristic was in full bloom. I could never portray the inhumanity as thankfully I was a part of the “regular kids” thereby I was spared. As kids we were so engrossed in building our own social order that we relentlessly and cruelly banished anyone who lacked conformity – conformity that the majority dictated. The cruelest of all humiliations those days was – name calling. Based on your physical, academic or other inadequacies you would given a name that would provide humor to others and death to you. Joydeep was called “aloo bhatey” (Mashed Potato) for his de-shaped body and inert demeanor. 30 kids yelled the same at him mercilessly at every possible chance from the 1st bell till the last. Sometimes the name calling graduated to hair pulling and slapping. But Joydeep rarely protested except a few drops of tears occasionally.
Although I resented to this torture but I didn’t have the nerve to go against the community. But deep inside I used to hurt badly and craved to reach out to him. Sometimes I used to tell my mother about him who affectionately told me “Deepu don’t ever hurt anyone for God punishers those who hurt others”. But surprisingly the Anirbans, Satyos and others who made Joydeep’s life a living hell were never subjected to any celestial reprimands. But my inefficiency to help him used to cause deep guilt in me. I was afraid. Fear isn't so difficult to understand. After all, weren't we all frightened as children? Nothing has changed since Little Red Riding Hood faced the big bad wolf. What frightens us today is exactly the same sort of thing that frightened us yesterday. It's just a different wolf in a different time. This fright complex is rooted in every individual right from childhood. So to make up for this sometimes I would give him a bit of candy, a Phantom Cigarette, a Pepsi Stick (Frozen Popsicle).
I remember the first day I had shared my lunch with him. Lunch time was a time when we flaunted our mother’s culinary credibility. So naturally everyone whose mom was a good cook was regarded with a deep sense of esteem for a share of the goodies. My mother was a good cook. So during lunch the guys flocked around me like bees to honey. And my mom knowing this sometimes used to pack more than what was required. One such day she had made “Lucchi and Aloor Dam” (A rare Bengalee delicacy). Quite a bit was left after the class had feasted. So I called Joydeep. No one was keen to include him in their pot lucks as his Tiffin was always bread and jam without variation. Initially he was scared and apprehensive. But probably because I never had any direct role in his assaults he came nervously. I smiled and said “Try this”. Still nervous he took a small bit. I could see that he was thoroughly enjoying my mother’s savory. So I extended “Come on finish it off”. I could see that he was overjoyed. But he stared at me and I could see tears rolling down from his eyes. Maybe he couldn’t imagine that amidst 30 odd butchers in the class someone like me could treat him like a human. “Wipe your eyes you fool” I snapped at him. “Do you want everyone to see this and make both of us more miserable?” I added. He quietly wiped of his tears with his dirty hands leaving a mark on his face. A mark also remained in my mind as well, that I didn’t understand then. But I can still see his tear strewn face laced with gratitude and a smile.
“Why don’t you ask your mother to make something nice for you Joy?” I asked him in mild admonishment. He looked at me with his same idiotic look and said “I don’t have a mother”. “Don’t have a mother”. How can someone not have a mother?” My 8 year old brain could not comprehend this. “My mother has gone to heaven” he said submissively. In a child's eyes, a mother is a goddess. She can be glorious or terrible, benevolent or filled with wrath, but she commands love either way. I was convinced that this is the greatest power in the universe and a birth right to every child. That night I couldn’t sleep properly. I kept on thinking of everything that my mother did for me. Rather of all the things that I couldn’t do without her presence and tried imagining life for Joydeep without it. Who does he snuggle up to when he is scared at night? Who dresses him up for school? Who buys him new dress for Pujas? Who stays up nights when he is sick? And a million zillion such other situations that requires only one person – ta mother.
In the morning I informed perplexedly to mother that “You know Joydeep, “Aloo Bhatey” ma, he doesn’t have a mother”. For some reason I saw her eyes getting moist and said “Deepu be very nice to him always. Remember he is very special. If you are nice to him his mother would bless you from heaven”. I didn’t know till late what she meant by that but since that day I was on a mission to ensure undying camaraderie to Joy. Those days all you needed to confirm friendship was a statement “Will you be my friend?” and a stretched hand. Joydeep readily became my friend. Slowly I learned more about him. He stayed with his father who was mostly out and an old house keeper. For some reason Joydeep was terrified of his father. He was estranged to things like love, affection, kindness and indulgence which were readily available to us. So little gestures on my part of these finer emotions used to overwhelm him. In the class I used to sneak a glance at him sometimes only to see him looking at me with deep look of contentment and happiness. His fat and round cheeks cherry red with glee.
His torment continued and I used to sometimes use my influence to spare him. For I did not have, the physical or mental built to keep off the brute strength of the on slaughters. But he didn’t look as distraught as before. Probably he had the satisfaction of having at least one friend who shares lunch with him. But he never sat next to me or hang around with me lest the others disown me but shyly smiled at me when we met alone at the Gym lockers or the wash room.
As kids the biggest celebration that we wait for annually was our birthdays. A day for many gifts. A day for good food. A day, when you are undisputedly the most important person in the world. It was my birthday and I invited the fellows from my class. Although I never supported their treatment of Joydeep, but they were my friends. I even invited Joydeep. Everyone came with books, toys, pencils and a major revelry was in progress when my father came and said that there is someone to meet me at the gates, who refuses to come up. It was Joydeep.
He had this big packet in his hand. It was a toy boat that actually floated in water on motor. This must have been really expensive. I remember seeing something like this at New Market once which my mom refused to buy for me because of the price tag. I felt really embarrassed but super happy. “Come on in” I said. “We are all inside and Mom has cooked Luchi and Mangsho”. But he was hesitant to come in. “Deepu every one is here, and they would not like me here” he said weakly. I ignored his pleas and almost dragged him inside. God knows where I mustered my strength from. Seeing the gift everyone was surprised and slowly they all came and shook hands with him. That evening I could see him a different person. A look of deep satisfaction beamed in his face that years of social depravity had taken off from him. I was happy. Content now that my friend is finally accepted.
For some reason Joydeep didn’t come to school after that. Nobody knew why. He didn’t even appear for the term examinations. I was too young to worry. I was at an age when even the most remarkable changes in life failed to create much of an impression. But one day we overheard some teachers discussing Joydeep very animatedly. We could not make out most of it but all we could understand was that Joydeep’s father had brutally beaten him up for taking some money from his purse. He had suffered severe concussions and he is now with a distant aunt. The teacher’s were enraged about his father behavior and had sent him a show cause. To this his father had become antagonized and had taken him out of our school.
Throughout break that day we went on analyzing why would Joydeep need money? Everybody had different notions. Some said – to have “phuchka”, some said to buy Tintin and many such opinions reverberated without any conclusion. But once I reached home I saw the answer to all the debates perched on my table shinning and red – the motor boat. He took the money to buy me this motor boat.
I didn’t see Joydeep anymore. Life went on and I grew up but every time I saw that Motor Boat I was reminded of him. I had searched for him in social media. But apparently he had just vanished. On reflection we would all definitely have warm recollections of our lives as children. But Joydeep surely would have had very little of it compared to all of us. All parents damage their children unknowingly. It cannot be helped. Youth, like pristine glass, absorbs the prints of its handlers. Some parents smudge, others crack, a few shatter childhoods completely into jagged little pieces, beyond repair. I pray that someday something or someone can collect all these pieces for him and build something that he desperately needed - belonging. I wanted to be there for him. But I don’t know how much I could have helped him. But in the brief time that I had known him it seemed that in me he had found that one person who had altered his isolated world a bit. He could tell me things that he had never shared with another soul and I absorbed everything he said and actually wanted to hear more. His dreams to be good in sports and studies that would never come true, the simple goals that he would never achieve and the many disappointments life had thrown generously at him. He was not embarrassed to cry in front of me for he knew that I would never hurt his feelings or make him feel like he was not good enough.
Memories of your childhood come back and are so clear and vivid it’s like being young again. Colours seem brighter and more brilliant. Simple things bring them to mind like a pale blue sky, gentle wind or even a storm cloud on the horizon - even an old red motor boat. It gives me strength in knowing that I have a true friend somewhere also feeling similar who will remain loyal to me till the end. This makes life seem completely different, exciting and worthwhile as a child. So I guess its true when they say that childhood is the kingdom where nobody dies
A part of my daily chore is getting my 7 year old son ready for school. It’s the rush hour and we both try to match the supersonic speed with which clock runs during this part of the day. He stays submerged in sleep while I tediously layer him with his uniforms, his tie, his lunch pack etc. Today as I was at it my son, who doesn’t speak much during the early sleep intervened hours of the day dejectedly mentioned “Baba Arya is going away to Muscat.” Saying this he silently went on to finish his breakfast head drooping to his shoulders.
It was a while later as I stood under the shower that this conversation echoed in my ears “Baba Arya is going away to Muscat.” It was then that I could feel the pang of separation that a 7 year old could not express in as many words. This was familiar. Too familiar with something that happened to me long ago. Almost forgotten till now. I knew Arya, a shy, quiet and spectacled kid. Always the first one to be disqualified at the group games that happens at birthday parties. No one wants to share the table with him (a fact that I had learned from my son). No one wants to take him in their group (another shared fact). But for some reason my son always made it a point to write his name (albeit not the first name) in his list of invitees for his Birthday and although he would be disappointed at Arya’s slowness, something told me he liked him. An emotion that was re-confirmed by his sad announcement of Arya’s impending departure to Muscat.
As I drove to work this morning I remembered another boy just like Arya, I had met when I was my son’s age. He lived in a city that no longer exists, in a house that no longer exists, on the edge of a street that no longer exists. He lived in a time where everything was discovered, and everything was possible. A stick could be a sword; a pebble could be a diamond, a tree, a castle. His name was Joydeep Mukherjee. He was fat, he was stupid, he was dirty and he was a liability to any side in sports. So no one was keen on having him in his team or be friends with him. He sat consumed in one of the last benches of Class 3D - alone. His clothes were untidy, hair unkempt and nails dirty. He often forgot to do his homework and failed to answer the simplest of questions in the class. For which he bitterly faced the scorn and ridicule of the students and the teachers alike. He answered all that indignity with his silence and quirky expressionless eyes that stared into a dimension that probably only he could see.
Anybody who has survived his childhood has enough information about life to last him the rest of his days. The first lesson you learn is that anywhere in the world it is always a crime to be different. A crime that you have not committed, but fate had cruelly imposed it on you. All you are left to do is but submit to its tyranny. Its extent can only be judged by the unfortunate ones who have been subjected to it. Even in grade 3 its demonic characteristic was in full bloom. I could never portray the inhumanity as thankfully I was a part of the “regular kids” thereby I was spared. As kids we were so engrossed in building our own social order that we relentlessly and cruelly banished anyone who lacked conformity – conformity that the majority dictated. The cruelest of all humiliations those days was – name calling. Based on your physical, academic or other inadequacies you would given a name that would provide humor to others and death to you. Joydeep was called “aloo bhatey” (Mashed Potato) for his de-shaped body and inert demeanor. 30 kids yelled the same at him mercilessly at every possible chance from the 1st bell till the last. Sometimes the name calling graduated to hair pulling and slapping. But Joydeep rarely protested except a few drops of tears occasionally.
Although I resented to this torture but I didn’t have the nerve to go against the community. But deep inside I used to hurt badly and craved to reach out to him. Sometimes I used to tell my mother about him who affectionately told me “Deepu don’t ever hurt anyone for God punishers those who hurt others”. But surprisingly the Anirbans, Satyos and others who made Joydeep’s life a living hell were never subjected to any celestial reprimands. But my inefficiency to help him used to cause deep guilt in me. I was afraid. Fear isn't so difficult to understand. After all, weren't we all frightened as children? Nothing has changed since Little Red Riding Hood faced the big bad wolf. What frightens us today is exactly the same sort of thing that frightened us yesterday. It's just a different wolf in a different time. This fright complex is rooted in every individual right from childhood. So to make up for this sometimes I would give him a bit of candy, a Phantom Cigarette, a Pepsi Stick (Frozen Popsicle).
I remember the first day I had shared my lunch with him. Lunch time was a time when we flaunted our mother’s culinary credibility. So naturally everyone whose mom was a good cook was regarded with a deep sense of esteem for a share of the goodies. My mother was a good cook. So during lunch the guys flocked around me like bees to honey. And my mom knowing this sometimes used to pack more than what was required. One such day she had made “Lucchi and Aloor Dam” (A rare Bengalee delicacy). Quite a bit was left after the class had feasted. So I called Joydeep. No one was keen to include him in their pot lucks as his Tiffin was always bread and jam without variation. Initially he was scared and apprehensive. But probably because I never had any direct role in his assaults he came nervously. I smiled and said “Try this”. Still nervous he took a small bit. I could see that he was thoroughly enjoying my mother’s savory. So I extended “Come on finish it off”. I could see that he was overjoyed. But he stared at me and I could see tears rolling down from his eyes. Maybe he couldn’t imagine that amidst 30 odd butchers in the class someone like me could treat him like a human. “Wipe your eyes you fool” I snapped at him. “Do you want everyone to see this and make both of us more miserable?” I added. He quietly wiped of his tears with his dirty hands leaving a mark on his face. A mark also remained in my mind as well, that I didn’t understand then. But I can still see his tear strewn face laced with gratitude and a smile.
“Why don’t you ask your mother to make something nice for you Joy?” I asked him in mild admonishment. He looked at me with his same idiotic look and said “I don’t have a mother”. “Don’t have a mother”. How can someone not have a mother?” My 8 year old brain could not comprehend this. “My mother has gone to heaven” he said submissively. In a child's eyes, a mother is a goddess. She can be glorious or terrible, benevolent or filled with wrath, but she commands love either way. I was convinced that this is the greatest power in the universe and a birth right to every child. That night I couldn’t sleep properly. I kept on thinking of everything that my mother did for me. Rather of all the things that I couldn’t do without her presence and tried imagining life for Joydeep without it. Who does he snuggle up to when he is scared at night? Who dresses him up for school? Who buys him new dress for Pujas? Who stays up nights when he is sick? And a million zillion such other situations that requires only one person – ta mother.
In the morning I informed perplexedly to mother that “You know Joydeep, “Aloo Bhatey” ma, he doesn’t have a mother”. For some reason I saw her eyes getting moist and said “Deepu be very nice to him always. Remember he is very special. If you are nice to him his mother would bless you from heaven”. I didn’t know till late what she meant by that but since that day I was on a mission to ensure undying camaraderie to Joy. Those days all you needed to confirm friendship was a statement “Will you be my friend?” and a stretched hand. Joydeep readily became my friend. Slowly I learned more about him. He stayed with his father who was mostly out and an old house keeper. For some reason Joydeep was terrified of his father. He was estranged to things like love, affection, kindness and indulgence which were readily available to us. So little gestures on my part of these finer emotions used to overwhelm him. In the class I used to sneak a glance at him sometimes only to see him looking at me with deep look of contentment and happiness. His fat and round cheeks cherry red with glee.
His torment continued and I used to sometimes use my influence to spare him. For I did not have, the physical or mental built to keep off the brute strength of the on slaughters. But he didn’t look as distraught as before. Probably he had the satisfaction of having at least one friend who shares lunch with him. But he never sat next to me or hang around with me lest the others disown me but shyly smiled at me when we met alone at the Gym lockers or the wash room.
As kids the biggest celebration that we wait for annually was our birthdays. A day for many gifts. A day for good food. A day, when you are undisputedly the most important person in the world. It was my birthday and I invited the fellows from my class. Although I never supported their treatment of Joydeep, but they were my friends. I even invited Joydeep. Everyone came with books, toys, pencils and a major revelry was in progress when my father came and said that there is someone to meet me at the gates, who refuses to come up. It was Joydeep.
He had this big packet in his hand. It was a toy boat that actually floated in water on motor. This must have been really expensive. I remember seeing something like this at New Market once which my mom refused to buy for me because of the price tag. I felt really embarrassed but super happy. “Come on in” I said. “We are all inside and Mom has cooked Luchi and Mangsho”. But he was hesitant to come in. “Deepu every one is here, and they would not like me here” he said weakly. I ignored his pleas and almost dragged him inside. God knows where I mustered my strength from. Seeing the gift everyone was surprised and slowly they all came and shook hands with him. That evening I could see him a different person. A look of deep satisfaction beamed in his face that years of social depravity had taken off from him. I was happy. Content now that my friend is finally accepted.
For some reason Joydeep didn’t come to school after that. Nobody knew why. He didn’t even appear for the term examinations. I was too young to worry. I was at an age when even the most remarkable changes in life failed to create much of an impression. But one day we overheard some teachers discussing Joydeep very animatedly. We could not make out most of it but all we could understand was that Joydeep’s father had brutally beaten him up for taking some money from his purse. He had suffered severe concussions and he is now with a distant aunt. The teacher’s were enraged about his father behavior and had sent him a show cause. To this his father had become antagonized and had taken him out of our school.
Throughout break that day we went on analyzing why would Joydeep need money? Everybody had different notions. Some said – to have “phuchka”, some said to buy Tintin and many such opinions reverberated without any conclusion. But once I reached home I saw the answer to all the debates perched on my table shinning and red – the motor boat. He took the money to buy me this motor boat.
I didn’t see Joydeep anymore. Life went on and I grew up but every time I saw that Motor Boat I was reminded of him. I had searched for him in social media. But apparently he had just vanished. On reflection we would all definitely have warm recollections of our lives as children. But Joydeep surely would have had very little of it compared to all of us. All parents damage their children unknowingly. It cannot be helped. Youth, like pristine glass, absorbs the prints of its handlers. Some parents smudge, others crack, a few shatter childhoods completely into jagged little pieces, beyond repair. I pray that someday something or someone can collect all these pieces for him and build something that he desperately needed - belonging. I wanted to be there for him. But I don’t know how much I could have helped him. But in the brief time that I had known him it seemed that in me he had found that one person who had altered his isolated world a bit. He could tell me things that he had never shared with another soul and I absorbed everything he said and actually wanted to hear more. His dreams to be good in sports and studies that would never come true, the simple goals that he would never achieve and the many disappointments life had thrown generously at him. He was not embarrassed to cry in front of me for he knew that I would never hurt his feelings or make him feel like he was not good enough.
Memories of your childhood come back and are so clear and vivid it’s like being young again. Colours seem brighter and more brilliant. Simple things bring them to mind like a pale blue sky, gentle wind or even a storm cloud on the horizon - even an old red motor boat. It gives me strength in knowing that I have a true friend somewhere also feeling similar who will remain loyal to me till the end. This makes life seem completely different, exciting and worthwhile as a child. So I guess its true when they say that childhood is the kingdom where nobody dies
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