PRISON CHILD

I am a prisoner. I live a life of shadows; of untold drudgery, and unimaginable woe. It is a life that does not let go; the harder you try, the harder it keeps a hold on you. The more you struggle against it, the more firmly it binds its arms around you. And then, it smothers you. Kills you.

My mother was a strong woman; a brave one. She lived alone, and died in a cell full of people, watching her take her last breath. I was born in those last seconds, I’m told. I don’t know where she’s buried. Someday when I get out of this place, I’ll look for her grave. I’m twelve years old.

In my short life, I’ve experienced many sorts of feelings. Hate, anger and regret. Mostly regret. In different circumstances, I would be a normal boy, going to a normal school, playing with other children. I dream of them, these other children. Would they look like me? I want to see another child, and compare him with myself. Maybe then, I would discover my shortcomings. He used to say that it’s always good to know one’s weaknesses.

He taught me to read, using the bits of old newspaper that he gets from the guards. He said that of all the experiences man should go through, feeling helpless should never be one of them. Helplessness eats at a person. It disables one from the ability of getting out of bed in the morning. To be helpless is to be vulnerable. And vulnerable people cannot live long in the world.

I have not seen the sun in this existence. I have heard, that it is round, and yellow, and enables growth. I do not know. How does one who has never seen the earth believe that it exists? How does one believe that there is a better life, when one has not seen it? A life where one goes to school, and learns new things about the universe. A life where one lives in a house, with a patio, and has a room all to himself rather than a cell filled with ten other people? A life that is full of colour? How does one believe in all this?

I have hope, fed by the old man, that someday I’ll be free. For most of the people here, that hope was vanquished a long time ago. They have come to the point where hope, fed by maggoty food and having to urinate in the corner of your cell, has finally let go. What is left? Despair. And as the old man said, to despair is to die.

One day I’m going to migrate. To that place on the other side of the wall. Where the sun is supposed to shine. I’ll never look back. I’ll forget that once, I was a forgotten person, in a land filled with forgotten people. That I was an institution, within that institution. I shall rise, and be free.

His name was Mwangi. He used to tell me these stories. He stole a cell-phone, and was put in here. And then they forgot about him. He showed me a newspaper, and taught me to write on the walls, using little bits of cement etched out from the floor of the cell. We had all the time in the world. When was that? I cannot recall. For the days sweep into night, and the nights sweeps back into the day. It is always dark, and so one must learn to live with it, he used to say.

“I am not aware of all this” I said. “Then you have to learn” he said. “One day you will have to leave this place, and make a success out of your life. Show them,” he said, “that from the dregs of humanity can rise power, hope, success. Let them know who you are, and where you come from.” “How?” I say. “I will show you.”

And then blossomed forth in me, a feeling. It was hope; I would like to believe that it was hope. For one glorious moment, I thought that I would be a great man, I would show the world who I was. And for that day, it was enough. I was alive, and I was hopeful. For he had made me believe that I would be free; that one day, I would be remembered, and asked to cross to the other side, where a world full of people existed, a new breed of humankind, who had not seen in their lifetimes what I have seen in my nine years. I was alive. I was hope reincarnated from the ashes of sorrow’s wasteland.

Where is Thou, Light?

I sit at the edge of the garden, and I wonder. I wonder at the breeze, playing softly with my hair. I wonder, at the flowers, of different hues and shapes, that smile at me. I wonder at the weeds which are growing, that seem to have taken root, which threaten the flowers I adore. I wonder at the palm in the middle of the garden, that seems to symbolize my life, this life. I wonder at the lamp-posts, whose strategic setting is meant to improve upon the aesthetic beauty of this garden at night. And finally, I wonder, at the stars that are supposed to be doing this job.

And then it strikes me. There are no stars. And there is no life. These flowers, this garden; do not exist. They represent a place which once was. A place of beauty, a place of joy, a place of freedom. A place where love lived.

Without constant nourishment, the plant dies. The baby wails. The earth cries. The moon hides. Human beings have the pity of all nature's bounties. For we have free will. We have the will to kill the best in us. And we exercise it.

We forget that beauty requires constant appreciation, constant nourishment, without which it becomes withered, and then it dies.

As it did. And the fairytale was over.

And then we sit, and we wonder about the beauty that disappeared. And yet, not once does it cross our minds that perhaps, we were the ones that got rid of it. Human beings tend to surround themselves with beautiful things. Furs, diamonds, jewels, palaces.

D id they not realize that the earth cried out every time a mine was torn into it? Did they not realize the Universe would one day, exact a payment from them? The time has come, then, to suffer.

Without love, life cannot exist. It becomes a phantom, a mockery, of the soul that once fed the beauty of the universe.

1. And yet we laugh.

Of Trains and "Chhackas"

Once upon my visit to India, I met a transvestite on a train, who proceeded to take my specs off of my nose, and demand one hundred rupees should I want them back! This was way after the times when transvestites, or rather, Chhackas, as they are known in Hindi, were socially acceptable. Historically, the Chhacko has always been a very mystical figure, an oddity rather, to be feared, but never understood! They had no rights, and were treated with as much contempt as rabid dogs. In this day and age, however, it is socially acceptable for a Chhacko to board any train, overcrowded or not, and demand rights, whether or not they be his!

As an interloper in the train (did I mention that I was traveling without a ticket? It all comes under the rule, When in India, do as the Indians), I couldn’t very well raise a racket, for that would bring the ticket collector scrambling through the masses of teeming humans to my side, and I was rightly wary of being charged a hefty fine. Reluctantly fishing out a hundred bob, I paid the Chhacko, and made good my escape. That train journey will always be remembered as the day I got ripped off by a Chhacko. After all, the train ticket to Chennai was a measly forty five rupees!

In the convening years, I have often thought it weird that although the train was packed to capacity, not one man came to my rescue. In that train filled with people from all walks of life, I found no one willing to confront the Chhacko; no one who found the courage to tell him that he was in the wrong. At that moment, I felt like a coward, for even I had not had the courage to confront him.

Someone once said that we all live lives of quiet desperation, and upon hearing this, some three years down the line, I remember this incident in the train. With a hindsight that comforts as well as exonerates me from my sense of self-contempt, I realized that India, the land of cultural and moral conservativeness, would not be accepting any strays that do not fit into the norms of the land. Hence, ‘socially acceptable’ is merely a cliché that standardizes the presence of transvestites in the Indian Society. True acceptance has never been gained, nor shall it ever be, as long as the society continues in its sluggish state of moral exactitude. It’s really no wonder that that Chhacka ripped me off. I’d do it to, were I one.

WHEN IN INDIA, DO WHAT THE INDIANS DO!

The Indian Auto Rickshaw (pronounced ‘Riksha’ in South India), is typically a dull yellow conveyance with a two cylinder engine and excessive exhaust fumes. Having never sat in one before, I watched with some trepidation as a passer-by hailed one, harangued over the price with the driver, got in, and braced himself for the ride. When it started moving, I understood why.

I was standing outside Chennai International Airport, on my first trip to India. The air was different, the people were different, the language was different. But it didn’t take me long to notice, that of the all differences, it was the difference in transport that was truly different! Gone were the ‘matatus’ that are so abundant in Kenya. Gone were the clear streets, and the greenery in the cities. Gone were those red metro buses that have fixed rates. In fact, a fixed rate for transport is a design that is not only not common in India, but sometimes if you mention it, you’ll be the cause of a few good laughs! Haggling is the in-thing, and if you know Tamil, you’re good to go. Unfortunately, that was not the case with me. Mentally preparing myself, I walked out of the Airport waiting area to get myself a Riksha. I found one, or rather, one hundred of them found me at once. The drivers of these Ricks all looked so similar, as though they were from one family; with neatly trimmed mustaches, red and white checked turbans around their heads, a bit of a smile showing teeth that have seen a lot of Paan but no dentists, and a tan brown shirt atop dhotis of several colors, but mostly pastels.

“Maam! Maam! Where you want to go? Come, I take you” was what I perceived to have heard, but with so many men shouting out the same phrase, the scenario became a bit too daunting. I quickly chose one of the drivers, and we walked a distance away from the others to bargain in peace. Mistake Numero Uno was to try picking up a Riksha at the Airport. Suffice it to say, I was bargaining from a position of low power. With no knowledge of Tamil. And a driver who understood only smatterings of English. I forgot the most basic rule. When in India, do what the Indians do. Which translates into, ‘When there is no Maximum Retail price on a product, start bargaining from a fifth of the price quoted. That’s the only way to get a bargain!”

With my minuscule knowledge of Hindi, I asked him about the fare to the City Central railway station. ‘Five hundred rupees, Maam.” “What? That’s preposterous! I’ll pay you Rs. 350. Not a cent more!” Not a cent more turned into twenty five rupees, as we finally agreed to three hundred and seventy five rupees. “Come this way, Maam, the Riksha is just around this corner.” As we walked and walked, I was getting more and more furious. The corner seemed to have vanished, and the heat seemed to have risen up suddenly. Exhausted, I berated myself for picking the one guy who’s Riksha was halfway to China!

It was no wonder that when I finally saw his Riksha, I sat on the sidewalk and cried. And the journey was not even begun. This yellow Riksha, with the bald tires, slightly lopsided appearance, and a meter which had probably never seen the light of day, was going to be my first conveyance in this, the land of the Rajas. I was going to enjoy it, come hell or high potholes!

LIFE. REALLY?

Life is a comedy. One moment in time, I’m on a rainbow, dancing upon the beams of light, absorbing the different hues, and radiating them. The next, I’m in a pit, too deep to climb out, yet too shallow. I can observe the world enjoying, but I can’t enjoy with them. And then comes another moment, where everything is the way I want it to be, but nothing is the way it should be. Who was it who said that day by day, everything is the same, but at the end, everything’s changed? For a long time, I’ve been in a cocoon, protected from the fallacies of the universe, and its people. And when I came out, it was strange and different. Assaulted from all sides by the views and opinions of people I find I can’t tolerate, I try my best to make do. What happened to the ego? What happened to thinking for yourself? They say its all about you now. We’re modern, they say. The world is at your fingertips. Grab out and catch hold of what you want, and never let go. They say. Is it true? Is it right? One wonders. Does the self-important philosophy of life mean that one should sacrifice everything that is good and right for the so-called respectability and honor in society? How does one judge by these elements? On a scale of one to ten? Or is it by the gushing one receives when they walk into a room? The money they make? Is it simply the mockery of trying to be something you’re not? I do not know.

SOMETIMES...

Sometimes when darkness covers the earth

The fog hides the mountains,

Shrouding certainty, faking reality,

Within, I sit, and dream

Of death, and sometimes,

Of beauty,

Sometimes.

I dream of the times,

When mountain tops shimmered

White with snow

When deer gazed at me silently

Within the woods

When dew, sweet on the red petals,

I tasted,

When love, hidden yet open, filled

Innocent faces

Sometimes, I dream, I remember

And so it helps, that dream

For the times that I am,

Within reality, within reach,

Of that fog, that wall of white,

The darkness inside, is the darkness everywhere

Mould has grown, taking over,

All the figments of the past

That remain, undestroyed, yet violated,

Because they were there,

They saw, they observed.

Where are the woods?

Where is the snow?

I sit on the rock, thirst unquenched,

Never to be quenched,

I await death, along wait,

In sight of that mountain,

Where once, there was snow, but no more.

No more.

And sometimes I dream.