In the rain puddle

As I felt my feet sinking in the rain puddles, a distant and vague memory flooded in.

Narayanan Uncle in E.N 1.

We lived in E.N.5.

I would have been not more than 4 years of age.

He'd sit on his flat-slabbed swing in his spotless white lungi with golden border and a kurta and all the children of the colony would sit down for the tales. I would stare at the golden border catching the sunlight, when my neck hurt looking up at him.

His wife would smile at us, while puttering around in the long hall. Her white bindi fascinating me. Bindis were always red, weren't they?

*****

I don't remember the tales he told. But I remember that he told them often. Most of the times the words would blur away and I would only hear his face..

Then one day he died. I was too young to comprehend what death was. Did I see a group of moist-eyed white clothed people? Or did I imagine it? Was that Narayanan Uncle with cotton in his nose, perched up on people's shoulder and not on his swing?

I only clearly remember that it poured on his funeral and I lost a shoe in the flood at his gate.

*****

There were no stories after he died.

Confused, I went to his home one day. The door, as usual, was open.

As I creeped into the hall, I saw his wife. Without the smile I knew, her face looked pale and sad.

She should have been surprised to see me, the youngest and quietest child who'd come there. Except that she wasn't.

She tried to smile. And failed miserably. My eyes must have asked the question.

She only shook her head as if saying,"No story today."

The swing was creaking alone. And empty.

*****

Strange, what a rain water puddle can bring you.

Behind JLF.

"Medumm, auto?"

I looked up from the top of my throbbing heels. Right beside the security check, outside Diggi Palace hotel grounds, there stood a couple of grubby looking young men.

"Bazaar le chalogey?"

A green eyed boy came forward.

"Chaliye medumm."

"Kahan sey?"

"Peeche sey."

"Peeche sey?!" I looked at the narrow lane leading it's way to a slum-like area just behind the palace grounds.

"The police-walas wont let us go from the front entrance Medumm." He said in English.

I wanted to get off my aching feet and heels so I followed the green-eyed boy.

And thus began a strange experience.

His name is Rishi he told me.

He told me he had married a woman called Whitney from Milwaukee, USA. He said they fell in love in 3 days , married on the 4th.

"You can check it on the youtube, Medumm!"

"But we divorced, because she wanted me to move to America. I am an only son Medumm. I have two sisters, I work in a call center at night. I want to be a certified Guide Medumm."

I nodded. Fascinated by the narrow dusty dirty lanes and getting to know the secrets of where insane amounts of food leftovers of the rich are dumped.

"Tell me Medumm, is it a literature festival or a drinking festival?" He asked, gesturing a peg with his thumb.

I laughed. "Why do you say that?"

"Because Medumm all these Indians come out not with books but with pegs and funny thing Medumm, the goras wear salwar suit."

"Yes, Rishi I agree, I saw that myself."

"Do you know what happened last night Medumm? A girl was so drunk she couldn't even make a call to her family. I called her Papa. It was 1 at night Medumm. She couldn't even walk."

"I earned Rs 5000 today because they come out drunk and don't care how much fare I ask!"

I nodded in silence. What could I say?

"I want to read books Medumm. I want to be a guide."

I promised to myself I will send him books. I promised I will read them myself and always remember the dusty dirty road that led me straight to the security gates of Diggi palace. And the one that led back to the garbage-filled slum of the rickshaw boys who fed tea and somose to police officers doing extra time.

The rickshaw boys who all had the JLF entry passes around their necks. Customers of 3 years on their phone list and email ids on yahoo.

Not a walk away from perfumed Ritu Kumar and Gucci bags, a few dreams are blooming.

A rickshaw boy is paving his way to a better future without any complaints.

Rishi Hotla. 2 sisters, one an aspiring IPS officer he says, another an aspiring doctor.

He lived right by the droopy roof of a hut and flowing hand-pump where 3 girls were smiling and washing their clothes.

I was humbled.

"Why are you silent Rishi?"

"You were silent Medumm."

No one has ever really respected my silence before, not in that perfect manner he did.

He talked when I wanted him to talk, told me tales.

He slid into easy silence when I got lost in thoughts.

He got me a good bargain at the Jaipuri jutti shop.

He saved me a long walk from the entrance of the Diggi palace.

He saved me from snobbery.

"I am no ordinary rickshaw driver Medumm." His voice rose above the traffic.

No, you aren't Rishi.

My holy cows.

Growing up we had two cows. Kappu and Sawitri.

My shocked mother once opened our door to find my "all creatures big and small" loving father standing there with a beautiful, black-coated jersey cow of about 6 months rubbing her big head on Papa's trousers.

"What is this?"

"Jersey cow."

"What are you planning to do with it?"

"Paaleinge."

"Cow?!"

Father nodded with a humor-me smile.

So trotted into the house, our new pet, not a dog (we already had three) but a cow.

Big beautiful eyes, shining black coat and the spirit of a stallion.

She would chew out the rope that kept her inside her cabin that Papa built in the backyard then ran around, with our school shirts and tunics blinding her vision, tangled in her thorns and getting all mangled up.

We'd close the doors tight and hang on to the windows watching her go "takbak takbak" till Papa came home. The mending of the tunics and shirts increased exponentially when we had her.

She even spoke to my father. Once a snake made her way to her cabin. She was scared. My father was asleep but she called out to him. And he heard her.

He spent half the night cooing to her.

*****

Do we love cows? We eventually had two. One was a brat. Another a lady.

One wreaked havoc in our sophisticated neighbourhood. Another wouldn't look at me if my hands were dirty.

Before I hit 12, I could make a meal for 2 cows and serve them expertly, dodging their enthusiastic teeth.

My family has roots in Madhya Pradesh. So, the news of the beef ban there made us raise our eyebrows.

Beef eating is not exactly rampant in the state. Damoh is the only place which is known for the availability of beef. So, to get a Presidential signature to ban beef seems more a provocation than any real concern for cows.

A state where "shikaar" (Hunting/poaching) of the national bird, deer and neel gaaye by the very people who govern or have influence with them is normal, has now banned beef. Violators will be given the same punishment rapists gets.

A state that built a gaudy eyesore worth Rs 27 lac on the waters of its capital, is now debating changing the name of Bhopal to Bhojpal. That Madhya Pradesh leads the nation in child mortality and malnutrition are lesser priorities.

*****

A vet once left my Father shocked by describing the plight of street cows.

The 'Go-shaala" where they are dragged to and chained are merciless places. They frequently dont get food or water, trembling on weak hungry legs.

They are bought and sold like slaves by those who are charged with looking after them.

This is the horrid reality that no one dares change, because the provocateurs are the one's who profit from it.

This is not about which party rules the state. It's not even a religious thing, Or a freedom thing.

This is the acid of ugly politics. It seeps in and rots our lives.

What did the unnecessary provocation get Madhya Pradesh ? Not much concrete beyond temporarily trending on Twitter.

I see outrageous headlines in newspapers. I see arguments from both the sides. I see them turning into a Hindu-Muslim thing.

And all I remember is my Father cooing to Kappu all night.