Tulsi

Tulsi Keshkamat’s entries

A responsible child

I was considerably clean. And neat. I ironed my own school clothes, washed my socks. I braided my own hair and was proud of my 'primness'. I was kind to her because she had failed and the other girls werent too warm. But I hated her tardiness. I could not fathom her untidy or overoiled hair, or her grubby socks. I included her in games, but I felt a pang to let her dig into my lunch box. I secretly looked down upon her for being lazy, since she wasnt foolish. And I didnt know what luck meant. After all I had seen her younger brother and sister. They were reasonably clean. The teachers were surprisingly forgiving towards her, but I could not overlook the unstarched school shirt. I had hardly known guilt the same way until she told me exactly why she bore the humiliation. She was the eldest of 4 children. And she had no mother and no time.

Just a Man

He was the strongest person in the world. No jokes. He was. I'd seen him once in a fight; something not many children can talk of. Unless their background was questionable. As in, fathers don't hold a street goonda by his collar for bothering their daughters. Well, mine did, for my elder sister. I never saw him cough, sneeze or lie down without reason. Obviously, he could do anything he wanted, or I wanted. When I witnessed the first major earthquake of my area, I was not scared. We were rushing out of the house. And he was trying to open the inside door, the main door and the gate as fast as he could. He didn't panic. Or didn't show it. But I couldn't fathom why he didn't stop the earthquake instead. I couldn't believe it when he said he couldn't. Since then, I've known he can't do everything in the world. He can't stop earthquakes.

Cycle waala

My parents couldnt afford the auto rickshaw pickup to school. But it was getting increasingly difficult for them to drop me. I couldnt be trusted on the bicycle yet. So he was assigned the task of pedalling me on his ancient Atlas Goldline. He was a known simpleton. Instead of him telling me stories, I regaled him with my classroom encounters. He had probably never been to school himself. But his manners were impeccable. On the last of my fifth standard annual exams, my Mom handed him some extra money. I was thrilled at the prospect of biking to school the next year. I would miss him, but I was practical. And it made me uncomfortable to see a big man like that cry big fat baby tears. He was back the following morning. With a black statuette. He knew I used to stare at it on the way home, at the potter's. My manners hadn't allowed me to reveal my secret desire to own it. I smiled, his face glowed. I got a new bike and he slowly faded out of my memory. Until this morning. When the statuette quietly sitting in the balcony slipped and crumbled from age. And I realised why grown ups cry at things like that.