My father was a mercenary; he
left me and my sister when we were 3 and 2. My mother being weak and incapable
of pursuing education took to house work. We were conditioned to less of money,
an everyday meal used to be bread, just bread. Cold weather was usual to remind
us that the woolens are thinning and shortening day by day. Such was my life
and I knew only one definition of life, that which was shown to me. I was
content and satisfied with what I had seen. I and my little sister were
untouched by the worldly vagaries till one night my mother came with a man. He
looked kind, and so was his prudence. He sat looking towards me with glim eyes
and said,
“I will take your mother with me to a new land. I have a child of your
age she needs a mother too. But I can’t take you and your sister. Your father
has been informed; as soon as he is aware he would come and take you both”
Words started confusing me;
simple conversation seemed to be complex and unbelieving. I looked intensely
and the only thing that I could utter in front of him was
“I need a mother too”
As I said those words, she looked
at me with moist eyes trying to convey a million things in million seconds. She
packed her bundle of clothes and left. ‘How’ and ‘Why’ are the two words that
took the utmost predominance in my handful of words dictionary. I was 5, my
sister 4. I couldn't move for as long as I could think. I sat in the middle of
my 1 room house, my sister sleeping on the floor mat near to me. I cried. A
million tears a million seconds.
The next morning Abbaji swung
open the door. He was old, very old and the only other human contact other than
mother and Sairi my sister since my birth. Yes we lived in a farm, a farm which
was far away from the world where people existed. He scorned at me, spitting on
the lemon tree outside our hut he said,
“Your father isn't coming. This is his reply.”
He slapped hard a piece of paper
on the floor which resembled the same on which my mother used to scribble every
night. It had two words of whose meaning I was unaware back then. I still have
that letter!
Abbaji took me and my sister to
the nearby town, the name I hardly remember. To what I presumed as an orphanage
was a home, where I was been kept to do errands. My sister was taken away by
someone else, I wish to believe to a better home, and I have not seen her since
then. In less than 72 hours I had lost the only human I ever knew. I was not
scared or hurt to realize that I was alone. I was in a state of comatose. I was
inhuman as I felt like an animal. An animal like the farm dog, whose mother
left him hungry and alone, whose father left him at birth and swore never to
return. I felt like the minute hand of a clock I could see lying on the cold
floor of the house, I couldn’t be fast enough to run with my father, I couldn’t
be slow enough to dissolve in the absence of my mother. I was small, and I
could have never comprehended my feeling of being un-wanted back then, but I knew
how exactly I felt every minute of that passing night with a memory of a
leaving mother and a two word letter father.
...
Today I am 34, that night I ran
away from the house I was given to, ran as fast and as mad I could, I begged,
borrowed and lived on the streets. I became a daily hire, a laborer for cheap
and then I worked as a garbage dump assistant. I went on to become known for
doing small wrong things for all wrong people, pick pocketing, knife handling,
passing bags full of drugs to unknown people at railway station. After living
my entire life on the streets of a crowded city, I also went to become a
mercenary.
Years, weeks, days passed in
killing people for money. I didn’t feel anything. Uprooting people’s family for
small time goons, I didn’t feel anything. Leaving young children crying, angry
and hurt, I didn’t feel anything. Burning homes, huts and palaces, I didn’t feel
anything. Running, crushing people, I lived every day like an animal and I didn’t
feel anything.
2 days back Rashid my employer
came with a man. A man who looked kind and so was his prudence. It ripped open
the day, the last one, I ever felt human. Yes, it was him.
“My wife was killed by my neighbor, over the ownership of land. And now
my daughter is in threat. I would pay you to kill him.”
As he said these words, I knew
that the wife used to be my mother, the daughter was his daughter and the Man
was the one who made me what I was today. I lay bare once again open to the
wounds of a past, cruel, vengeful and sad. But she was my mother, giver of my
life, my existence. Someone killed her, brutally with an object people can’t
describe. Someone wronged her. My job made my instincts boil my blood to kill
the wrong for money. I got up in fury, my anger pulsating within the walls of
my heart, throbbing my veins a million times in million seconds. Sweat dripped
my forehead as I heard Rashid asking me to hand him the promissory note,
agreeing to slaughter for money, my license to kill. Blinded by the humidity of
the weather and my fate I took my wallet, a torn piece of paper and handed over
to him.
“This shall be my reply to the justice for your dead wife”.
Rashid looked bloodshot as he
faced eye to eye. It was the same piece
of paper my father replied to Abbaji
“No, never”
I walked out of the small room to
a broken door into the scorching sun, heat piercing my skin and drying my lungs
like a desert. I cried. After 27 years of being the farm dog I was made to be, this
was my first human experience. That day I knew what was that I couldn’t define
when I was 5. That suffocation, that feeling of being treated as non-existent,
the feeling of disowning, the feeling of lost, the feeling of anger, the
feeling of isolation, the feeling of grief.
Can suffering be so long? Is
human brain capable of holding something so hurtful for such a long time? Yes
and that is the reason I write this letter to you, because I know, like me you
would have searched the feeling that has not let you sleep for days. ‘How’ and ‘Why’
are still the two most important words of my life and for you to find your
answers I write this to you my little sister. Someday hope you find this.
The story of our life.
Bombay Diary holds my experiences
from the city of memories. The Jahangir state museum holds a room full of memorabilia
of those who drowned, suffered and lost their loved ones in Bombay floods. This
piece of letter someone found corked in a bottle, Its significance unknown.
This was written in Hindi and a part of it almost smudged off. Not being sure
if it is still kept by the curators I have written to convey the feeling I felt
when I first heard of it from a fellow traveler to my office. She works as a French
translator for the museum.
