Nobody cares and it's fine

When I was younger, the world seemed sorted. Yup, that’s the word. There was no scope for the greys to dominate, simply black or white. People were either hungry or full. There was no “feeling hungry” nonsense. Back then, you were born and you died. Nobody around me sat and discussed the purpose of life or the meaning of existence over an endless supply of food and drinks. We only wanted to grow up as soon as possible, not get beaten at home, get a decent job, help our family earn some money, and get by with respect. That’s about it.

Almost every child around me harboured similar ambitions. We waved at the sky whenever a plane passed by, assuming that the passengers could see us. We were incredulously naive and even the gods couldn’t help us think better. The place where I grew up in, we knew that money would solve all our problems. It was too evident. This is the upside as well as the downside of not hailing from privilege.

You get the window seat to your own downfall.

To grant you broader context, our house had real walls for the first time when I was in 5th standard (god knows how much I loved those bricks getting stacked up with cement by a Tamil-speaking mason; so much so I took it upon myself to ‘water’ the newly standing walls before leaving for school). Until that point, we had tin sheets for walls—the type where you could hear anything and everything about your neighbouring family. So, yeah, we, and not just me, had a slightly different outlook.

Since we saw people driving cars only on our black-and-white TVs—none of our neighbours owned a 4-wheeler either—we didn’t even bother dreaming of owning a car someday. That idea didn’t even enter our minds. We used to make that stupid vrooom-vroooom sound while running around, pretending to ride a motorcycle. Why? Because some men around us owned motorbikes. Like I said earlier, only black or white. No greys. Little space for discourse. Very little space for imagination.

Right behind our house lived a man with one arm extending only to his elbow. And every evening, around 4, he used to have a cup of tea with another man who lived in the next lane. Later, I learned that this fully armed man was the one who chopped off the other fellow’s arm in a fit of rage. They argued about something and something led to one man losing his limb forever. Despite all that tension from two decades prior, they chit-chatted while sipping chai.

I don’t know whether I could absorb this information when I first learned it. But today, as my wrinkles are gaining momentum, I can’t think of a more apt example of forgive-and-forget.

Now that I am in a relatively better place in life—well, nobody has ever accused me of being ambitious—I’ve done pretty OK for myself and my folks, with my dignity in place. However, whenever I think or talk about my childhood, it’s hard to believe that that was my reality. And not just mine but so many children around me, who perhaps, could never leave that place behind. We played gully cricket but not one of us dared to dream of playing for India someday. We knew our place in the world and it was so wordlessly explicit that tragedy is an understatement. Children from this millennium came up believing that they can do anything if they put their mind to it. If this isn’t bliss, what is?

I don’t know whether I’ve mentioned this on my blog earlier but the only thing common to Tagore and me is we are both experts at naming. He named everything from Akashvani (yes, the radio broadcast) to Priyadarshini (Indira Gandhi’s actual name) to Amartya (one of the very few living Bharat Ratnas). I’ve named some dogs and cats. I’ve also tried my luck with human babies but their parents often get in the way.

Anyway, going back to Cheeta Camp—interesting name indeed. Nothing to do with cheetahs as such. It’s a misnomer for chita (pyres) as that place used to be a cremation center, later turned into resettlement, so as to make extra space for Anushakti Nagar (which boasts of the highest per capita science-related community in the world). Our family moved there in 1990 from our village near Manipal.

One of the first friends my mother made, in spite of her lingual barriers, was a fierce woman named Alima-boo. Everyone called her that and to this day, I don’t know the backstory of her name. No greys, of course? But I remember her vividly for her active role in breaking up squabbles. People respected her and when you respect someone, you pay attention to what they say, and when you do that, peacetime lasts longer. This was my first ever lesson in leadership.

In one of her gully lectures, she told a newly married woman in our neighbourhood to stop crying and show some courage. Having seen her share of troubles, nothing fazed her. She advised something to the line of “nobody cares and it’s fine” in chaste Bambaiya Hindi. The lesson was so hard-hitting: you are supposed to be there for yourself even if others aren’t.

Unforgettable shit.