The maze of life

Joy unleashed, unimpeachable alter ego discovered, grandeur of life perceived and I am myself in high spirits. I am indeed obliged to find the most trustworthy chum in the fullness of time, which is merely a diary that has become dearest to my heart and to which I will be disclosing all my secrets.

(1st June, 2018)

Dear diary,

It was no greater rarity to discern the ball of fire blazing and to perceive the sky damp with perspiration and veiled with a haze of gold of light, triggering everyone to huff and puff whilst provoking me to make the most of the sweltering day by lounging on my bunk.

Calmness arrived and embraced me with its decent arms, making me to suppress the urge to whine about the oppressive weather and giving rise to an appetite to write, which was alluring enough. Writing a diary is like a new feat for me to perform. In contrast to all the letters I scribble frequently, I have discovered the most reliable mate I could ever find- my personal diary.

I was tempted to write a diary for it is undoubtedly a wonderful way to contemplate, record our thoughts and to spend some quality alone time every now and then which is tremendously important to stay rejuvenated and unbend.

Doesn’t it sound rude and uncouth to call it solely a diary? Even I dislike people who summon me by calling me just a ‘girl’, after all I have a name.

So, for convenience let it be called dear Anne. Although I am aware that it isn’t the best name I could’ve picked. I chose it as it was the first thing that came to my mind, perhaps because I am on the trail of reading Famous Five series.

By the way, Anne would be musing who dared to write upon her, hence let me introduce myself first.

Aged thirteen, I am a dauntless yet a quiet girl (this is why I chose to maintain a diary). From ere long, I am living with my parents and an eighteen-year old brother in a shattered hut amid a hustling bustling village in Delhi. It is not kind of a gigantic or colossal bungalow nevertheless it is the basic need of livelihood and I am half sure that my family is contented the way it is currently living.

Even though we are dwelling in a rural area, we are kind of richer than the rest of the people around us. Still, according to my father’s income we are considered to be a part of the poorer sections of our society. (The poorest man is not without a rupee but without a dream. In that case, we weren’t poor.)

Today, I was flying with joy because I purchased my dear Anne. You would be thinking how come I purchased it if my family lives in penury.

As a matter of fact, let me rise you above the clouds of ignorance. I had invested in the money bestowed to me on my birthdays since childhood. Little did I save and much did it become. That little amount that I congregated every year cajoled me to buy the things I had always yearned and aspired for.

Everyone’s life is related to money, however, neither the rich nor we, the poor get to enjoy our money. One is too busy trying to hold on to it and we are too busy trying to get it. They have ample money to live luxuriously the whole life yet are never satisfied. It is too unfair that I unable to taste that cookie of richness! Isn’t it?

Yours, Ridhi

(2nd June, 2018)

Dear Anne,

Today was such a casual day that I have no clue what to write. As I was keen to write in you, I began scribbling anything.

Surely you are unfamiliar with my family’s disposition, therefore let me give you an account of it.

My father, Rampal, works in a factory. My brother’s perspective is that he has an intriguing personality, but I don’t think so. I have a prospect that father is unkind, harsh and partial probably because I never saw him from too close. Whatever it is, I never changed my prospect or never endeavoured to gaze closely at him. His eyes are witty and vicious and his visage is more or less formidable.

Intimidated by his dreadful moustache, my words don’t flow as smoothly as they flow whilst chattering with others. The words I utter stutter. From his point of view I have an impassive and fierce stare and he thinks that I resemble an owl. To me, he is a figure to be frightened precisely because he has grown a wild moustache above his lips. I feel that description is enough for him.

To describe my intimate mother, Usha, I don’t know from where to start. I love her very much. Of course I don’t go kissing and hugging her every minute.

However my heart always had reserved the softest space in my heart for her. On contrary to father’s inevitable tendency, she is placid and tranquil which makes her irresistibly sweet. She had neither a formal education, nor much wealth; despite these disadvantages, she posses great innate wisdom and generosity of spirit.

I have also written a beautiful poem for her-

She is a shadow of my success,

And the biggest source of happiness.

She is like a booster, when my hopes are dying,

She is like an aid, when my heart is crying.

She is like a beam of hope- a shining ray,

Who gives light to inspire me to live a beautiful day.

She is like an ATM, to which I go when the cash gets less,

And she allows me to withdraw the cash of happiness.

She scolds me, when on my shirt, there is a speck of dirt,

But warmly embraces me when I get badly hurt.

She doesn’t need any make-up because only a smile is her grace,

And she’s so sweet that she doesn’t allow tears to fall on my face.

I feel, she is the only person who knows to truly love and care,

Selfless she is; every pain for her latter she would bear.

Her love is something that no one can explain,

It is made of deep devotion and of sacrifice and pain.

It believes beyond believing when the world around condemns,

And it glows with all the beauty of the rarest, brightest gems.

Her love and sacrifice is something a man cannot understand,

She is a wonderful evidence of God’s tender, guiding hand.

Yours, Ridhi

(3rd June, 2018)

Dear Anne,

Every child is born with some inherited characteristics, into a socio- economic and emotional environment. I inherited self-discipline from father; from mother, I inherited faith in goodness and deep kindness, and so did my brother.

Before you came in my life, dear Anne, my mother was the sole person to whom I confided in my secrets; it was never my brother. I am sometimes somewhat envious of him due to the special care father takes and the special attention and consideration he is given. Don’t take me wrong. I am not jealous from each and everyone. It’s just the feeling you have between two siblings. Every brother or sister someday or the other, in my opinion, feels that his/ her calls are not heeded.

Nonetheless, I am thankful to him (Prakash bhai) for being a great help. Graduating from a government school makes him the only literate person in our family (others are ignorant). What he learnt in those years he teaches me and that is why I am able to express my deep feelings so well.

I have three close friends since my childhood, Priya, Rohit and Ankita who are audacious and have no cowardly bone in their bodies. All these friends are from orthodox Hindu families. In the evening, my friends and I gather under the shady, peepul tree. Under the shade, we chatter, play and laugh. Life is simple yet amusing. That time of the day is simply pleasant and rejoicing.

We play games like gilli-danda, kanche, and hopsctch Games that fascinate me more are those played by other people like the so-called basketball. Neither am I aware how to play this ball game, nor any other game that arouses my curiosity. If someone teaches me the fundamental rules of these outdoor games, I would definitely become an ardent lover of sports.

My playfellows are a gift from God. We have implicit trust on each other and never doubt each other’s goodness. When I share my sorrow, it becomes half sorrow; when I share my joy, it becomes double joy. Friendship, I believe, is the only rose without the thorns. It isn’t about whom you’ve known the longest. It’s about who came and never left your side.

From my childhood, I have loved singing and the village people also cherish my mesmerizing voice. Each day I enthral my mates by issuing a stimulating song from my lips. I think it is fair to say that singing is my true religion. It helps me to discover my soul. Without music, I feel, life is a journey through a desert. Where words fail, music speaks. It is a piece of art that goes into the ears straight to the heart. Basically, music is love, love is music, music is life and I love my life.

Good night!

Yours, Ridhi

(4th June, 2018)

Dear Anne,

The bazaar begins with a rush of noise and confusion. When I entered it, I plunged into a throng of people on the road which was alive by the cries of vendors and the smell of cattle. The cows moved leisurely through the crowd, noising around for discarded vegetables.

I moved along with the crowd, fascinated by the sight of beggars lying on the roadside; some skeletons, some covered with sores. Like the people who turned blind eyes to them, I also didn’t bother much about them and walked confidently through the bazaar. I looked a healthy girl until you came up too close and saw the obtuseness in my eyes.

I passed a sweet shop, where newly made ladoos shined like gold in the glass case and where a fat, oily man raised a knife ad plunged it deep into a thick slab of amber-coloured halwa.

In my mouth, saliva was building ...there was an ache in my stomach. But my eyes gave away nothing of the sharp pangs I felt.

And then there’s a sweet shop. Glass jars filled with chocolates, peppermints, toffees, English sweets- wrapped in bits of coloured papers. A bag of sweets was just bought by a boy and he had one in his mouth. The sweet moved from one cheek to the other. He bit deep into it and I heard a crunch and looked up. The boy smiled at me, but moved away.

I, too, moved away and went to the peepul tree. The old, peepul tree had forced its way through the walls of an abandoned shop in the bazaar, knocking the bricks down with its vigorous growth. Peepul trees are great show-offs. Even when there is no breeze, their leaves will spin like tops determined to attract your attention and invite you into the shade.

Some metres away, there is a large land of tomatoes. They spread like a red river, urging you to dive into them.

The owner of the land is a kind man with hefty shoulders. Once my friends and I chanced to cross his field, and our mouths watered to see the luxuriant, red river.

“Can we get just one of these?” Ankita asked, with flattery and with sparkle in her eyes.

“Sure; here you go!” the sweet man smiled and handed her one ripe tomato.

After that day, at present, we often ask for the red growing balls and he willingly gives them to us to eat. They are so tasty that there’s always a fight between us as to who will eat.

Some days you’ll find my gang in his field, while on the other days we got to the general store in the bazaar where Prakash bhai is employed to make chai to supplement the income of the family. In return of his service to the owner, he gets paid a little amount of money, from which he often buys a candy for me. Overall, he is a kind as well as sympathetic brother.

In contrast to the land owner, the owner of the general store is as stubborn as a mule. He doesn’t lend us anything like that benevolent man does. His big eyes stare and widen at us when we touch any of the items of his shop because he knows that we are not going to purchase anything, but to have fun.

One day, however, there was dullness in his eyes. We touched the stuff, but he didn’t mind us doing that.

“Maybe he is sleeping with his eyes open,” Rohit giggled.

“He looks on the brink of suicide” someone muttered.

“No, there’s something else” I said.

“What’s the matter, uncle?”Ankita asked, loudly. When he didn’t respond, we asked my brother, eager to know what the matter was.

“He has been robbed. The huge amount of money, that he had accumulated for his daughter’s marriage have been stolen at midnight when he and his wife were in a deep slumber” Prakash bhai reported to us.

“Very sad indeed” we said in unison and then left the scene to congregate near the peepul tree. Subsequent to this, I did the household chores. Mother was fond of putting me to work in the house; if it wasn’t washing the utensils, it was mopping the floor or hauling water from a nearby well or assisting her in making food.

Yours, Ridhi

(6th June, 2018)

Dear Anne,

You would surely pity me if I tell you that neither I nor my playmates are allowed to go to school, wouldn’t you? Whenever I discuss this topic with father, he turns deaf ears to my pleas and requests. When pressured, he retorts that it is a waste of money since one day I have to become a housewife. He uses every argument he can think of to dissuade me. In this matter, I don’t like mother either for she zips her lips and doesn’t protest against father.

I believe, that knowledge is crucial in everyone’s life and that it should be mandatory for all. Knowledge is the greatest possession of man. It is the treasure of a wise man; it is the key to success and the greater it increases, the more the ignorance unfolds.

The prime obstacle is that I am not enlightened as yet. What if I am a girl? I didn’t get to opt for my gender- that was His will. When they can send brother to a school then why can’t I have the right to education. After all, I am a child of my parents and they should treat me equally as well. Why should they be biased against me?

Don’t I have the right to live as blissfully as my brother. Surely I have, but no one here values my capabilities and strength. It is too unfair and only you can understand my tender feelings, dear Anne.

Truly yours, Ridhi

(11th June, 2018)

Dear Anne,

‘We say we love flowers, yet we pluck them; we say we love trees, yet we cut them; and people still wonder why some are afraid when told they are loved.’

From the past two days, some outsiders have been invading our village and cutting the trees, (auspiciously, the old peepul tree hasn’t been cut) though the villagers are against their devastating action.

I don’t understand why they cut the trees that are the source of our very breath; by cutting them, they are curtailing their lives themselves. Indeed, human beings are unpredictable. They are the only creatures on Earth that will cut down a tree, turn it into paper, and then write ‘save the trees’ on it.

In the evening, I walked alone, condemning the destruction.

Nature’s sweetness whispered in my ear,

When once I chanced to tread

On the path where nature’s charm enveloped the air,

And where the trees no more spread.

Tears clung to the wounded peepal tree,

I sat under it and appreciated nature’s glory;

A timid bird came over to me,

And narrated her disconsolate story

I couldn’t apprehend her chirping,

Yet I endeavoured to understand her talk

Fortunately, I comprehended her gesture,

And that left me in a deep shock.

She said, “Humans are devouring our homes,

My kids are starving with hunger.

There is no day when we are not sick with worry,

and when our hearts are not filled with anger

We are hopeless with no support,

and with no voices raised on our behalf.

We are dying without food and compassion,

and are crying while the world continues to laugh”

“Oh dear struggler! ” I said

“I am pleased to see that mother has given birth

to so many selfless fellows; and I consider it my duty

to save you and the other creatures living on earth.

I can realise that there are so many like you

who are drowning in the well of despair,

But don’t lose hope because one day,

The earth would be enraptured with stimulating air.

That day, mankind would be compelled

to heed Mother Nature’s call.

Humans would learn a lesson they ought to learn,

for once and for all!”

I sat down in the shade of the peepal tree. I cradled my head in my arms and I dozed off. While a slept, a wind sprang up; it came swiftly, swishing gently through the old tree, humming softly. It was then joined by other random gusts. The winds rendered the dry leaves lying on the ground to swirl in the air. I opened my eyes to see that it was already dark now. It was late evening when my friends arrived and we walked home together, through the darkening glade, singing to the stars and the glad moon; and the peepul tree swayed its arms to bid us goodbye.

Yours dearly, Ridhi

(15th June, 2018)

Dear Anne

Nothing has been alright since the past four days. Tension and anxiety are reigning the premises.

Lately, on June 13th, my mother was grumbling and moaning of weight loss, chest pain and wheezing. Father consoled her saying that it would be fine by the following day. However, the situation didn’t turn up as good as we had envisioned. It exacerbated and worsened.

The next gloomy morning, at about 5, she began coughing (not the ordinary cough, she was coughing with blood).

My brother immediately took out father’s shoddy bicycle which has a heedless plight and with mother sitting uncomfortably at the back, he hastily pedalled to the one and only hospital in the village. Father also sprinted behind, leaving me alone in that isolated hut where I was compelled to stay.

I had always cheered my mother when she was feeling low by singing cheery songs for I love to sing. This time I felt hopeless, demoralised, disconsolate and downhearted. A feeling of dumb despair enveloped the eerie atmosphere. My mother was writhing in agony and I couldn’t do anything rather that to pray to the almighty for her fast recovery.

My ears didn’t get to hear any satisfactory news from father when he returned after some time.

“Your mother has lung cancer and the doctor said that she’ll not be able to live more than one year” he said in a grieving tone. He looked miserable and woebegone.

For a split of a second, everything seemed like the worst nightmare, only it wasn’t. Those disheartening words that father spoke made me feel despondent.

Soon after, brother and mother returned. She was looking as paler as ever when she stepped on the threshold. I hurried towards her and desperately flung myself into her arms. The mere thought of her going away from me forever caused me to burst into bitter tears. In her heart a cry was triggered too. Her terrible plight was reflected through her rheumy eyes. I could see that inside her bosom her heart was much cast down.

When my grandfather died after a prolong illness, I was unaware of what death actually meant; now I am mature enough to know the meaning of death. Death is the opposite of life, but a part of it. It leaves a heartache that no one can heal. Moreover, I dislike father and brother but that does not imply that I want them to perish.

From today, my belief on God broke. The implicit trust I had upon Him has faded.

God knows how much I cherish her. I really love her from the bottom of my heart and she is everything to me beyond a doubt. God knows that I cannot think of living without that angel, then also he proved to be tyrant and cruel. Pardon me if I am using abominable words for Him. Had you been in my place, you would have done the same.

Yours faithfully, Ridhi

(17th June, 2018)

Dear Anne,

Today I had thought of waking up a little late as yesterday we had gone to a close relative’s marriage at night in spite of mother being plagued of poor health. Still, nobody in the family let me sleep in the morn. An argument between the remaining members aroused me from my peaceful slumber. What I heard is as follows,

“Where on earth will we get the money from? Was it necessary for you to become a cancer patient? Such a waste of money!” father said furiously.

“You’re saying like I had a craving to be a cancer patient. You can never understand the pain of a woman!” Mother glared back at him, incensed.

“Mother, calm down please” brother said. “We have to brood over another serene matter. Where would we admit mother? We will have to shift to a city since there are no proper health care centres here. If we admit mother in the local hospital having improper health facilities then it would gradually worse the situation” he advised.

Abruptly altering his accent and being as courteous as possible to brother, father said, “But son dear, you know how much it will cost to live in a cosmopolitan or metropolitan city. How will we adjust there?” (Did you notice that? Despite being frustrated, father spoke in such a pleasing tone vividly because he likes him more.)

The fierce contention went on and it was so adult-like that I didn’t wish to hear more of that dispute. Father just talked about money, mother about attention and brother about shifting. The only fact that concerned me was shifting to the modern city because I know that I would not be able to adjust in a new atmosphere. Also, I have made friends here who are a good company. Nonetheless, we, the poor, are forced to pursue an existence not only devoid of such luxuries like air conditioners, T.V., refrigerators etc but lacking also in many of the pure necessities of living like sufficient food, decent clothing and above all, uncontaminated water.

After that quarrel the remaining day was customary. Like all the other days, my friends and I gathered under the tree and listened to my songs.

Yours sincerely, Ridhi

(27th June, 2018)

Dear Anne,

It was a new morning, sharp and fresh. It was quiet until the Sun came shooting over the thatched huts, lifting the laziness form the village.

Father is determined that we are going to shift in the city. He has taken a small loan from the bank and accumulated all his savings for the sake of mother’s health. Plans are made, packing is done but the problem that arises is about the furniture; how would we take our antiquated furniture to the modern world?

Here, in our village, we have nothing more than a broken cupboard, a damaged radio, a small bed, a shattered sofa and an old fashioned wooden table. We don’t have much beds; we sleep on the floor like the rest of the villagers.

But father has decided to take everything and not leave a trace of us. I have a mixed feeling of excitement, belonging and maybe nostalgia too.

All the bags were packed till the clock struck two in the afternoon; only work left was to wish farewell to friends and relatives to whom I couldn’t tell the whole story behind migrating as father had refrained me to gabble an unnecessary word. Saying goodbye to the gaily clad humanity and the people who had always stood by our side besides providing invariable assistance was itself a herculean task. Nevertheless, I was half sure that the circumstances would definitely compel me to befriend someone or the other.

The noise of the hooves of the horse from a fainter sound grew louder and louder. I could faintly discern the tonga ride through my eyes.

Whatever luggage could be fitted was laboriously put in there. The household things, along with me and brother had occupied the whole space and the tonga driver looked enthusiastic enough to participate in a marathon with a panicked face, determined eyes and with sweat gathering on the edges of his

The tonga driver had his ears open as wide as a marathon runner waiting for the signal to sprint. After getting a thumbs up from my serene father, he smashed the horse’s back and commenced the race at full speed. Few seconds I and my brother got to say by to our fellow beings.

Third ride it was for me on a tonga so I wasn’t much thrilled about it. For the rest of my journey, I sat rather nonchalantly. Unlike other tonga rides, this was a bit more amusing. At one place where the driver was heading further like a bullet train, a timid, fatigued puppy cropped up in front.

Beating the horse again with a stick, we made an abrupt assault. Two bags, one with a small, fragile statue of a peacock and steel crockery; and the second bag comprising of father’s sundry clothes flew on the road with a bang and flung open.

The delicate idol of the bird broke into innumerable pieces (if father would have witnessed it, he would have been outraged) and the other bag (father would have been more furious about this) fell into a smelly drain, resulting in the clothes becoming soiled from tip to toe.

No sooner the marathon runner saw the whole scenario, than his blood ran cold. It seemed like he was disqualified out of the race. He summoned for assistance from a nearby hawker and packed the broken and muddy things.

“Father will see you!” brother went ballistic and roared angrily at him.

The driver, being much scared, changed a bit after that. He slowed down the speed so much that I felt I was riding on a tortoise.

The desired destination arrived. I and my brother carried the luggage from onboard the tonga ride. I looked around and suddenly witnessed a new atmosphere. The winds were not amiable; rather they had a dominating accent and endeavoured to subjugate my potentials.

The houses were made of concrete, besides having many a floor (unlike ours). The buildings, the restaurants, the people all were new fangled.

The atmosphere gave a pause to my persistent happiness. My shattered and torn out clothes looked outdated before the modern world. The wind, exhibiting that usual domination tried to suppress me again. From that moment on, my heart consistently cribbed, “Why am I poor?”

Never mind, I should not sue for more from God; I should be contented the way I am; At least I have a place to reside in, an outfit to be clothed in and food, the bare necessity, to devour. Everything in my life can’t be good, but I can anticipate some goodness in everything. This is what my clever mind whispers in my sensitive heart’s ear.

It seems my father is giving me a call; I should better be going. Tomorrow I shall write again in you having more bliss to share and more anecdotes to narrate. Good night, dear Anne!

Yours lovingly, Ridhi

(28th June, 2018)

Dear Anne,

I remember that yesterday I hadn’t finished the tale of that tonga- driver. Father’s call had given me a halt. Here’s the hilarious part which took place

The driver, after leaving us at our new house, thought of leaving secretly too. Brother was determined to tell father to give him a tongue lashing, hard and vulgar, for his conduct that day. In that confusion that held sway, the driver, in bewilderment, made a blunder. Thinking that it was prudent to run by foot than on a horse, he leaped from the ride.

Brother, just behind him, chased him while he, who was being chased made a dart so that he couldn’t be chased. Then, he started chasing brother and shouted, “Thief, thief!” It was a tactic for stop being chased and provoked others to chase. Brother, who was lost in the mayhem, started running from the chaser who was chasing him and saw that he was gradually chased by a throng of people who believed that he was a burglar and that it was important to chase the person chased by another. Now, the driver, who was being chased in the beginning, left the mob chasing the person who was chasing him at first and the brother being chased.

In this confusion of chasing and being chased, one thing was sure that my innocent brother would be caught by the chasers.

Immediately, the people caught him by his collar and started to beat him. I protested, but in vain.

Fortunately, father and mother came for his rescue. When I dashed to father and endeavoured to narrate the whole scenario, he turned deaf ears to me and ignored me, rather he was keen to listen to brother’s narration (although it was the same) because he thought that he was way too intelligent from me. It was vivid that he loved him more. For what purpose did God make fathers for, to be biased and partial?

Well, I have no clue; God solely knows.

Yours truly, Ridhi