So, I found a couple of my primary school friends on facebook a while ago. And it brought back a few interesting stories. I think I've mentioned before that my father kept changing jobs a lot. So I've never been friends with a person for more than four years, on an average. But I was part of many good friendships while they lasted.
There was this one guy called Parth. In my memory, he's always blonde; but it's highly unlikely he was. But he was very pretty. I guess the most good-looking in our class, now that I think of it. But when you're 6 years old, you don't think of such things a lot. (I was cute once upton a time; and the cuteness factor decreased exponentially as I grew older. If only I knew... I could've killed myself so people would have always remembered me as an adorable 3 year old. Wait, what? nevermind, coming back to Parth.) So, Parth, yeah. Parth liked to draw. And he was really really good at it. He drew Pokemon and he would invite us over to his house and we'd all gape at him in open-mouthed wonder. That black and white Sendaquil looked so real..
And one summer, I went back to Mysore for a couple of weeks with my parents; and when I came back, we still had a couple of weeks of vacation left. The next evening, I went down to Parth's place on my bicycle. We all had bicycles and that's what we did in the evenings. Cycle. I don't remember why it was so fun. But it was and we'd do that almost every day. The other days, we'd play bat and ball. We called it bat and ball because for cricket, you needed to have a stadium and wickets and spectators and stuff.. it was necessary to preserve the integrity of the game.
So, I rode down to his apartment and started yelling out his name. Usually after two shouts, you would hear an annoyed mother or grandfather shout to Parth saying his friend were here but that day, I heard nothing. I called his name again. 4 times. 5 times. Nothing. The sixth time, I remember this very well, an aunty answered "Arre wo chala gaya". "Kahan?" I ask. "Nagpur. Hamesha ke liye", she yells back.
I walked back to my cycle, without saying thank you. I rode that day all by myself. I don't remember what my thoughts were that evening. And I don't think I want to know what they were. I did have a faint memory of someone telling me his folks were moving. Was I sad? Was I emotionally mature enough to know to be sad? Or did it just not matter? And which was more sad? - A kid upset about losing his friend or a kid who just went "Oh. Nevermind" and moved on with his life as if nothing happened?
Parth was not part of our group from then on but I don't really recollect any afternoon lunch-breaks spent missing him. My best friend was someone else. I remember my first best friend - Darsheel Safari (name changed, obviously). I remember his round face with short hair, how his face would light up every time he smiled - like a small male Julia Roberts. Of course, we were kids. All of our smiles were adorable. I don't remember anything else about him except that whenever somebody used to ask me who my best friend was, I'd say his name. And I have some vague memory of a teacher telling my mother that we were inseparable. That might've been made up, I'm not sure. There is really only one clear memory I have of him.
There was this one guy called Parth. In my memory, he's always blonde; but it's highly unlikely he was. But he was very pretty. I guess the most good-looking in our class, now that I think of it. But when you're 6 years old, you don't think of such things a lot. (I was cute once upton a time; and the cuteness factor decreased exponentially as I grew older. If only I knew... I could've killed myself so people would have always remembered me as an adorable 3 year old. Wait, what? nevermind, coming back to Parth.) So, Parth, yeah. Parth liked to draw. And he was really really good at it. He drew Pokemon and he would invite us over to his house and we'd all gape at him in open-mouthed wonder. That black and white Sendaquil looked so real..
And one summer, I went back to Mysore for a couple of weeks with my parents; and when I came back, we still had a couple of weeks of vacation left. The next evening, I went down to Parth's place on my bicycle. We all had bicycles and that's what we did in the evenings. Cycle. I don't remember why it was so fun. But it was and we'd do that almost every day. The other days, we'd play bat and ball. We called it bat and ball because for cricket, you needed to have a stadium and wickets and spectators and stuff.. it was necessary to preserve the integrity of the game.
So, I rode down to his apartment and started yelling out his name. Usually after two shouts, you would hear an annoyed mother or grandfather shout to Parth saying his friend were here but that day, I heard nothing. I called his name again. 4 times. 5 times. Nothing. The sixth time, I remember this very well, an aunty answered "Arre wo chala gaya". "Kahan?" I ask. "Nagpur. Hamesha ke liye", she yells back.
I walked back to my cycle, without saying thank you. I rode that day all by myself. I don't remember what my thoughts were that evening. And I don't think I want to know what they were. I did have a faint memory of someone telling me his folks were moving. Was I sad? Was I emotionally mature enough to know to be sad? Or did it just not matter? And which was more sad? - A kid upset about losing his friend or a kid who just went "Oh. Nevermind" and moved on with his life as if nothing happened?
Parth was not part of our group from then on but I don't really recollect any afternoon lunch-breaks spent missing him. My best friend was someone else. I remember my first best friend - Darsheel Safari (name changed, obviously). I remember his round face with short hair, how his face would light up every time he smiled - like a small male Julia Roberts. Of course, we were kids. All of our smiles were adorable. I don't remember anything else about him except that whenever somebody used to ask me who my best friend was, I'd say his name. And I have some vague memory of a teacher telling my mother that we were inseparable. That might've been made up, I'm not sure. There is really only one clear memory I have of him.
I think this was in third standard. Let me remind you, third standard was when you came to school wearing shorts with suspenders. And you had different school bags. The wide ones, not the long ones you use now. And you wrote with pencils. Natraj/Apsara. Apsara was better looking, wrote darker, had fancy sharpners and smoother erasers. Yet somehow, mom always bought Natraj. Natraj was our like family pencil. And we had pencil boxes - Thick plastic containers in pinks and blues and greens. And for some reason, what the pencil box said on top mattered a lot to us. Most of the times, they'd be completely random; I remember one which went "Rock Lord 1987" with guitars and drums in the background. I mean, what? More importantly, why? But some boxes would have Spiderman or Goku or Ash Ketcham on them. And people who got those boxes would naturally be the center of attention of the entire class till about a week or so. So it was a big deal, to have a pencil box with a picture of a superhero on it. They said something about you, which superhero you chose. Even if those superheroes just guarded stationery, they made a statement.
(In my case, it was my mom who did the choosing. I think it was the same with my friends too. I don't think any 6 year old in middle class Bhandara was given the remotest sensation of free will. It was too dangerous at that age. But if that was true, nobody said anything)
(In my case, it was my mom who did the choosing. I think it was the same with my friends too. I don't think any 6 year old in middle class Bhandara was given the remotest sensation of free will. It was too dangerous at that age. But if that was true, nobody said anything)
And one day, some idiot bought a pencil box with a picture of a barbie on it and all hell broke loose. It started with some genius thinking it was good idea to smack the box onto someone's face and then tease the guy saying "eww.. you kissed the barbie.. you kissed the barbie! heeeheee". And soon the whole class was doing it, all retards, giggling as if they'd just come upon the most wicked plan for world domination. Now here, I'm the good guy. I'm trying to ignore all this, do my classwork silently, thinking what those nimwits do is none of my business and BAM! a box slams into my face and Darsheel goes "Hahaha you kissed her! you kissed her!". I slam my notebook shut and give him the deadliest stare I can muster. "I'm going to tell ma'am". "No you're not," he goes and tries to push the box to my face again. I manage to shove it away just in time. "THAT'S IT", I shout. I stand up and Darsheel realizes I'm finally serious. He pulls me back to my seat and apologizes hastily. "Oh no, but now it's too late," I say, shaking my head. He waits for me to smile, to call it off. But I don't. His expression changes into one of dread. It goes from "Kya ba, itte se baat pe kayko gussa hotae" to "Bhai, nai Bhai. Bhai please. Ek aur chance de do na bhai". I think about it. I decide that the best way out of this ethical dilemma is to let ma'am decide i.e. I won't accuse him of anything or give a biased opininon. I'll just tell her what happened. And she's grown up, she'll know what to do. I tell him this. He looks at me as if I just told him he's adopted. He begs me not to. "I can't", I say. "I have to tell her. I warned you. You left me no choice". Ek baar jo maine commitment kar di, uske baad to main khud ki bhi nahin sunta.
So, that's what I do. I walk up to ma'am and tell her what happened. I think she slaps him. Or makes him Murga. You know, when you crouch and bring your hands from under thighs to hold your ears? Some smartass thought it looked like a rooster. But he did get punished in the end, one way or the other. Because I had to act like Eddard Stark.
We still remained best friends, or atleast I thought we did. Because when you're that young, all you want is someone to play with. You don't care if he's a sleaze or a self-righteous cunt as long as he can swing his bat with a 16.66% or greater chance of hitting the ball. That isn't the case when you're grown up. When you're a kid, things always have a happy ending. When you're grown up, insults are remembered, exaggerated. It's a dark place, the world adults inhabit.
No comments:
Post a Comment