Our Cricket Bat

Once upon a time we had a cricket bat, my brother and I.

We loved that bat.

It was our first deuce bat, after all.

I remember the night it was bought, about 25 year ago. It was a momentous day in our lives.

It came out of the blue, without warning. Just like that. Wrapped in a neat, blue cover.

Our father took it out and handed it to us. It was so shiny. So gleamy. So new. I held it and smelled it; it felt like new furniture. I took a batting stance; the handle was too big for me to grip. And it was so heavy. Too heavy for my little hands. The blade was so thick. I felt I could smash any bowler in the world. I was overawed.

We would no longer need my skinny little bat. We were now in the big league. We owned a deuce bat, after all.

It became our loyal companion in the days to follow. Every evening we would take it out from the little space behind our mother’s almirah, which became its permanent shelter for the next ten years.  

And then…Hours after hours, days after days, it would exchange hands between me and my brother. I would await my turn eagerly. To hold the bat. To feel the heavy thud of the cork ball on its face. Ball after ball… Over after over …

In the initial days, I would generally be out bowled in the first ball itself; flailing wildly at thin air and unable to lift the bat quickly enough.

“One more ball, Bhaiya. Please, one more ball,” I would plead.

When our matches would be over, I would quietly wait for the time my brother wouldn’t be around. That is what I eagerly looked forward to the most. Because that is when I was the king.

With the bat held in my little hands, I would progress to play shadow cricket. To someone watching me from a distance it would have appeared an odd sight – a skinny boy wildly swinging his bat in thin air on his verandah.

But in my mind, I was batting at Lord’s and Eden Gardens, and the Melbourne Cricket Ground and the Kensignton Oval. I was smashing Wasim Akram and Waqar Younis, and Courtney Walsh and Glen McGrath…No bowler was spared by the wrath of my new willow. I would pulverize them all over the ground.

Cover drive. On-drive. Straight drive. Flick. Cut. I played all the strokes with deft precision.

I was the king, you see. No less than Don Bradman and Sachin Tendulkar. Better, in fact.

Often, a situation something similar to this would arise:

I dance down the track and thump a six off Shane Warne over long-on to bring up my triple hundred. The crowd goes wild. “Bhavesh!!! Bhavesh!! Bhavesh!!!” They are delirious with joy for their hero. I hold my bat aloft, beaming in pride at having become India’s first ever triple-centurion. Oh, what a feeling!!!

“Chiku, stop waving your bat around like a lunatic. You will break something. Come back inside,” a female voice would break the glorious sequence.

And so it would continue.

In the years to follow, the bat took several poundings, strewn with little red and green smudges all over its blade. I would often sit down and clean it with oil. My brother and I even taped the rubber on the handle after it had torn away. We loved our bat. It was a deuce bat, after all.

We grew older and slowly the bat took a backseat. It would rarely come out from its confine, the little space behind our mother’s almirah. Sometimes at night, however, when I would be troubled or stressed after scoring another single-digit score in my Maths exam, I would take out the bat and transform into the best batsman in the world again.

It was refreshing. Me and my bat and the world I created with it. No one could enter it. And I loved this world.

Unfortunately, however, about 13 years back we shifted from our old home to a new place. My life had changed by then. I was an adult and was dealing some rather distressing situations in my life. In the commotion and confusion of that unfortunate phase I thought we had lost our bat.

To be honest, I had forgotten all about it. When I actually remembered it, it was too late. Nowhere to be found. A beautiful part of my childhood. Gone forever.

My heart would wince in regret every time I would recall our beloved bat over the past many years. But life had to move on. And it did…

Until earlier this week…Life took me back to my glorious past again…Just like that.

My father had planted himself on our shelf in the terrace; rummaging through the contents and trying to rearrange stuff. Much to my annoyance he kept calling out to me every five minutes, handing me down dusty and moldy items that I held with a scrunched nose.

“Chiku…Come here and take this down,” my father called out to me for the zillionth time.

Grumbling to myself, I went out. He was handing me down our giant Sony television carton that has been a part of our life for close to 20 years now.

I coughed and sneezed as I placed the carton down on the floor. As I was rubbing the dust off my hands, my eyes suddenly fell on the inside of the carton.

There was dust everywhere. There were little, torn bags filled with cobwebs. But…Lying quietly on top of them was a dust-covered deuce bat.

Have you ever found something from your past totally out of the blue? Something you had almost forgotten but which was an integral part of your childhood?

Well, this was that moment for me.

Almost in a daze I picked the bat up. It was like everything else had become a blur. Just me…And the bat…

“Chiku…Hand me the bags,” my father’s voice broke my reverie.

Taken aback, I quickly flung the bags at him and ran inside. With a soft cloth, I progressed to clean the bat meticulously; a swarm of memories coming back to me while I wiped the surface.

I gripped the bat firmly. It felt nice and perfect. My heart suddenly began thudding in my chest. It was as if something warm was frothing inside.

“One more ball, Bhaiya…Please, one more ball”, I could hear the distant echo of a little boy inside my head.

“Chiku…Stop waving the bat around,” a female voice was calling out to me next; very distant and yet so near.

I wiped my eyes and concentrated on my stance.

Cover drive. On-drive. Straight drive. Flick. Cut. I could still play all of them with great precision.

I dance down the track and smash one straight down the ground. “Bhavesh!!! Bhavesh!!! Bhavesh!!!” The crowd goes hysterical, chanting my name. I raise my bat aloft and acknowledge their cheer.

After about twenty minutes, when I had exhausted myself with my shadow cricket, I took the bat inside my room and placed it right next to my mother’s almirah. There was no place behind it now. So this would have to do.

I have promised myself to take better care of it now and never lose it out of my sight again. Until I am ready to pass it over to someone worthy, maybe.

But for now, it will stay with me. And I will indulge myself with it whenever I can.

I must. For my own self.  For my brother. And for our childhood.

Because this is no ordinary bat.

It is our deuce bat, after all.

Chapters From My Childhood : Sealed With A Six

May 1997, Udaipur, Rajasthan

Even though it was 4.30 in the afternoon, the damp grass still had the smell of last night’s rain emanating from it. Rains in the month of May in Udaipur were a blissful rarity and the fragrant mix of the moist soil and the wet grass helped soothe my frayed nerves at present.

A cricket match was currently in progress in the massive backyard of my naani ghar (maternal home) and I was nervously waiting for my turn to bat. My team was batting first and I sat in a small shed at the extreme end of the field: our makeshift ‘pavilion’. A few other cousins, who had been dismissed, sat behind me egging on the batsmen on strike. Cricket in the afternoon was the most common pastime here and being the avid follower of the game, I looked forward to participating in every match. Things weren’t that easy here, though.

Almost all of the players here – my cousins and their friends, mostly – were very adept at playing the game and as a 12-year-old, I was overawed by their skills. Moreover, all of them were in their late teens and of bulky frames and I, the tall, gangly and shy kid, was clearly the odd one out.

Since I was here for my month-long summer vacation, my cousins would take me in their respective teams more out of pity than for my skills at playing the sport. The matches would usually be 6 players-a-side and I was taken just to fill the numbers of the respective team I was selected in. It was embarrassing to be selected this way, but I would just be excited to get an opportunity to be a part of the games.

The matches were 6-over contests and most of my time in the field was consumed in chasing the balls to the boundary as I was never allowed to bowl. Whatever little chances I got of batting - something I dearly loved - I fared extremely poorly in them. I was no match to the pace, bounce, and guile of these bowlers and my stay at the wicket this season had mostly been shorter than a few minutes.

Nevertheless, being the eternal optimist, I always believed that on one glorious day I would smash these bowlers to all parts of the ground and win matches for my team. In fact, before coming to Udaipur every year, I would envision some rather thrilling situations: that my team is in a precarious position and I lead them to victory with my coruscating batting performance and my cousins then come rushing towards me and carry me on their shoulders, off into the glorious sunset.

A loud cheer from the center of the field brought me out of my reverie. A wicket - the last recognized batsman - had fallen and I was now the last one in. Himanshu, my elder cousin, had been dismissed in the second ball of the last over. The score was 34 in 5.2 overs.

“Only four balls left. Just take a single and give the strike to Mirchu,” said Himanshu to me while handing me the bat. I took the bat from him and sighed deeply. Cousin Mirchu was glaring at me menacingly from the non-striker’s end. He could be extremely snarky if he didn’t get enough balls to bat. This was going to be a tough challenge.

***

The match was being played with a Croquet ball and the fear of being hit on the legs loomed large in my thoughts, as I walked up gingerly to the wicket. There were no pads to wear and my spindly legs were exposed. We just wore chappals to the game and as I saw my cousin warming up to bowl, I gulped.

My cousin Paritosh, all of 17 years of age, was a sturdy young kid who could bowl really fast. He was easily the best and the fastest bowler of the entire family and not many preferred facing him. He could curl the ball in the air at pace and had a lethal yorker that had destroyed many a stump. I had already been dismissed for naught on several occasions by him this summer apart from being hurt quite a few times in the unmentionable area.

No one in the field expected me to do well. Not even me. But I had no choice and face the inevitable.

“Cover me lagake bhaagna sidha (Hit the ball to the covers and simply run),” shouted cousin Mirchu from the non-striker’s end. I nodded solemnly.

Paritosh ran smoothly, leaped in the air like an eagle and hurled the ball at me. The ball whizzed past my nose much before I could even lift my bat to play a stroke. I must have looked rather silly flailing my bat wildly in the air as the opposition fielders sniggered loudly. I could feel my team members rolling their eyes behind me in the pavilion and then saw Mirchu just shaking his head.

The third ball pitched on the middle and straightened. I attempted to cut the ball but missed and it just went inches over the off-stump. Paritosh left out an anguished cry even as the others of his team smiled, probably at my ineptness.

Flustered with myself, I could feel my palms getting sweaty. I rubbed my hands on my shorts and quietly resolved to at least get bat on ball run to the other end.

The fourth ball was a little slow and a tad outside off. This time, I somehow managed to plant my bat in the line of the ball and played a stroke towards the cover region.

Unfortunately, my stroke did not have much life in it and the ball was easily fielded. I had taken a few steps out of my crease to run but Mirchu wildly gestured me to go back. There was no way either of us would have made it on time.

“Should we declare, you moron?” hollered one of my team members from behind. I chose to ignore his jibe and concentrate on the task ahead, not willing to give up. The bat now felt heavier than usual. I rubbed my palms dry on my shirt and gripped the handle firmly.

The fifth ball was a yorker, aimed right at my toes. I wasn’t prepared for it and was wildly looking to slog. The ball hit my right toe at pace and I muffled my cry as a searing pain shot through my right foot. There was no way I could show anyone that I had been hurt. Nonchalantly, I picked up the ball and lobbed it back to the bowler while gently rubbing my foot without anyone’s notice.

I could now see Paritosh smirking a little. He had me hopping like a cat on a hot tin roof and was mighty pleased with that. Mirchu, meanwhile, had given up and continued shaking his head. I felt irritated and a little helpless. Something had to give.

 The wise words of my father then suddenly swam back to me. “Watch the ball very closely. Watch it until the very end,” he would always tell me sagaciously whilst I played cricket back at my home in Calcutta. I had never quite paid heed to those words but somehow it seemed this was the moment I was destined to do so.

The last ball from Paritosh was fast. This time, I followed his hand closely as he released the ball, which was short of a good length and landed a few feet away from the off-stump. I danced down the track and following the line of the ball, swatted it straight, with all the strength I had, before it could rise up.

The bat made a resounding ‘craaack’ as it met the ball right in the middle, the sound reverberating across the field. There was a stunned silence in the arena as everyone’s eyes rose in the air, watching the ball rise high in the orange sky. The little round thing soared and kept going high, crossing the field and the street beyond the field, before finally landing on top of the terrace of a building opposite it. It was a ginormous six, as big as anyone had hit here.

I stood rooted in my position. My bat still held firmly over my shoulders. My eyes still searching for the ball that had now disappeared. My chest heaving up and down.

There was loud whooping from behind me and I saw my teammates rushing towards me. They patted my back and ruffled my hair. Even the opposition team had smiles on their faces. My eyes, though, were fixed on Paritosh. He was the only one who looked too stunned and deflated to react. Befuddled, he was still watching the building beyond the terrace; refusing to believe that he had been hit for such a massive six by a 12-year-old. The air had clearly been winded out of him.

The ball was lost and could not be retrieved. But nobody cared. It was my moment to savour now. It was the first ‘proper’ six of my life.

I held my bat aloft in the air and proudly strutted around with it to the pavilion. It was my highest score of the season here. Just six runs. But at that time, those runs meant the world to me.

The remainder of the match went by in a whizz – we won by 5 runs. But only the sixer kept playing in my mind over and over. Everything else was just a daze.

***

Dinner that night was memorable. We used to have dinner in a large central hall of the house. Around 15-20 of us would gather around in a circle and share our stories at the end of the day. Today, I was the only one who was speaking and was clearly the star of the house. The high of smashing that six had enveloped me completely.

I animatedly recounted my heroics with the bat to everyone who would care to listen. My naana, my maasis, and maamas had to bear the brunt of my pompous retellings of the six I hit.

“I just came out of the crease and ‘Bam’,” I re-enacted the shot from my sitting position to my family members who listened to me keenly.  Food had never tasted so good to me during the entire vacation.

The only person conspicuous by his absence was Paritosh. A bruised ego, after all, takes some time to heal.

Interview with prominent wildlife conservationist Belinda Wright

“If only animals could vote”, laments Belinda Wright as she reflects on the rapidly failing standards of the Indian wildlife. Widely regarded as one of India’s leading wildlife conservationists, Wright has been striving hard to save the Indian tiger from extinction over the past three and half decades.

Belinda Wright

Speaking from her Delhi-based office, the Executive Director of Wildlife Protection Society of India (WPSI), Wright sheds light on several critical issues concerning Indian wildlife and her efforts to save it.  WPSI’s commitment is primarily to the tigers, their habitat, and the Indian people and Wright has been responsible for countless seizures and raids on poaching gangs.

Born and brought up in Kolkata (India), her love for wildlife, as she mentions, is in her DNA- both her parents were animal lovers.  It was this love for wildlife that inspired her to launch the WPSI.  And through this organization, she has also been attempting to reach and help various local communities from remote villages.

In the Sundarbans, for instance, over 1,80,000 mangrove saplings have been planted in and around the Bali Island by the local communities, with the help of Wright and her organization. The locals have also formed a voluntary Tiger Rescue Team which reacts swiftly to any reports of tigers entering nearby villages.

Not many would know that Wright has also been a wildlife photographer and filmmaker for the National Geographic Channel and has won two Emmy Awards along with 14 other major international awards for her National Geographic film 'Land of the Tiger'. She has also been conferred with the Carl Zeiss Wildlife Conservation Award 2005. 

Undoubtedly, Belinda Wright is special. In an interview with yours truly she sheds more light on her life, serious issues concerning wildlife and her efforts to save it.

Q. Can you shed some light on the current wildlife scenario in India? Do you honestly feel that the Indian Tiger can yet be saved?

Belinda Wright: Tigers are not a difficult species to save. They breed well and require undisturbed space (particularly to avoid conflict in human habitation), protection, food, and water. Tragically, it seems that we are not able to provide them even these basic survival requirements. What tigers give us in return is unimaginable. Their very presence is the reason for protecting forests that are the source of about 300 rivers. Tigers stop the exploitation and devastation of these forests that are vital for the environmental security and wellbeing of the nation. The tiger is also a keystone species that plays a critical role in keeping the ecosystem that it lives in healthy.

The tiger is an iconic species the world over and the national animal of six nations, including India. If we cannot save a species of this magnitude, how will we be able to save other species, and indeed our precious planet?

Q. Tell us a bit about the history of Wildlife Protection Society; especially its achievements and breakthrough over the years.

Wright at the Dec 2007 seizure in Allahabad 

Belinda Wright: I founded the Wildlife Protection Society of India (WPSI) to try and bring new energy to the wildlife conservation movement in the 1990s and to fill what I saw was a critical gap, the lack of wildlife enforcement. One of WPSI’s primary aims is to provide support and information to the authorities to combat poaching and the illegal wildlife trade, particularly in wild tigers.

Probably our single biggest achievement is that we have helped ensure that people actually now know how and why tigers and other species valued in the wildlife trade, are brutally killed and traded. We have exposed the facts, and the killings are no longer the guarded secrets of wildlife criminals.

Q. Over the years you have constantly attempted to bring the core issues concerning Indian wildlife to the forefront. But somehow they haven’t exactly yielded the results that they should have.  Does frustration creep in after a while?

Belinda Wright:  Fortunately, I have always been a fairly optimistic person, and despite the incredible odds, some positive things do happen. For example, there is a lot more awareness of the problems and needs of wildlife conservation than there was in the past, particularly in civil society and the judiciary. Greed and corruption play a negative role in practically every issue, and wildlife too suffers from this. Political support is also lacking – if only animals could vote!

Q. What exactly do you think is wrong with the Indian system that it continues to fail in arresting the falling standards of the Indian wild? Where are we going wrong?

Belinda Wright: As I said earlier, the failure is mostly to do with greed and corruption – in the political system, in the forest service, and all the people who put pressure on them to bend the rules. The government has invested huge sums of money for wildlife conservation, but while the one hand provides, the other destroys. Forests are seen as easy pickings for mines, highways, dams, nuclear power stations – just about anything. Another huge problem is our burgeoning human population, which puts pressure on all lands and wild places and results in the growing problem of human-animal conflict.

Q. You have been extremely passionate about wildlife. How and when did this passion for wildlife begin?

My parents were both animal lovers and we shared our large home in Kolkata with dogs and horses and many orphaned wild animals. My interest and passion was always wildlife, and I have never thought of working on any other subject.

 

Belinda Wright with a tiger cub in Patna, 1974

Q. Tell us a bit about your formative years, especially the experiences related wildlife.

Belinda Wright:  My family is of British origin with a long association, going back many generations, with the Indian Subcontinent. My mother was the daughter of an ICS officer and my father was the son of an IPS officer – he was born in Kolkata, and so was I. My brother and I had a wonderful childhood in Kolkata and Bihar (we spent practically all our holidays in what is now Palamau Tiger Reserve) in the 1950s and 1960s before we were sent off to school in England. I hated being away from India, but it didn’t take long before I was back again.

Q.Who have been your role models in wildlife conservation ?

Belinda Wright:  My first wildlife guru was Dr. Salim Ali, who I was fortunate to know well. Billy Arjan Singh and Fateh Singh Rathore also became close friends. But ultimately I think my role model is Dr. George Schaller. He is a rare combination – a renowned scientist and an unshakable conservationist, someone with determination, knowledge, and soul.

Q.  If you could, what be your recommendations for our administration and other concerned people to improve the wildlife scenario? 

Belinda Wright: So many excellent recommendations have been made over the years and ignored. The creation of a sub-cadre for wildlife could probably bring about the single biggest positive change so that managers and field staff are properly trained and dedicated to wildlife issues. The Prime Minister even agreed to this proposal, but it never happened. We desperately need better leadership and management of our protected areas, especially to motivate the demoralized field staff. Field staff vacancies need to be filled and training and infrastructure improved. And we desperately need intelligence-led, professional enforcement.

A solution to much of these problems can also be found with the support and collaboration of local communities. I know such support is possible, but it will not happen under the present system.

Q.  Do you think the Indian middle-class is too unconcerned from issues concerning wildlife? Nobody seems to care about it. And should the media play a bigger role to make the average Indian be a little more concerned about the critical wildlife issues? 

Belinda Wright: The media is playing a critical role in spreading knowledge and information on wildlife and environmental issues. Thanks to their efforts, the average Indian is much more aware of the issues, then it was say ten years ago. But the knowledge gap is still wide. People still do not understand what is actually needed - the solutions to the problems - even though these are well documented.

 Q. What is WPSI's current motive given the present day wildlife situation in India? What would your future objectives be? 

Belinda Wright: Curbing wildlife crime will always be our focus, but the human-animal conflict is increasingly becoming a widespread problem and a challenge for contemporary wildlife conservation efforts. This is an issue that must be handled swiftly and professionally, with government and non-government organizations working closely together. Every district with forestland should be equipped, trained and prepared for conflict situations.

Q. How long do you think you can continue on this endeavor to save the Indian wildlife? How would you like to be remembered as? 

Belinda Wright: I will continue to fight for India’s wildlife for as long as I breathe. Despite all the failures, I would like to think that I do make a positive difference, and I don’t care if

I am remembered or not. That is not the reason why I do what I do. I am driven by a lifelong passion that I am sure will never be extinguished.

Of being a tall boy and those unpleasant memories

Last week I was reading this book review posted by a friend. It was the story of a fat girl who is bullied and mocked for her weight. The reviewer then went on to point out how she was fat-shamed as a girl in school and hence could relate to the story at a personal level.

The review left me stirred up. I felt sorry for her. And it got me thinking about my school life. My boyhood was mostly very happy. I made great friends, had some unforgettable memories and always look back on that phase with a lot of fondness.

There is one aspect of my childhood, however, that I don’t often discuss. Not in detail, anyway.

I have been very tall for as long as I can remember. Today I am okay with it; I take it in my stride, in fact.

But that wasn’t always the case.

I was unusually tall as a kid; the tallest in my class for the entire length of my school life. In fact, I had touched almost six feet when I was in the fifth standard itself. And those were very embarrassing days. For instance, in middle grade, we had to wear half pants, and courtesy of my rather long legs, they would feel embarrassingly short. My growth rate was alarmingly fast and after every three months, I would outgrow my new shorts causing much frustration in my family.

I had to endure some really snide remarks about this for a really long time. I had no way to cover my long legs and would just put a smile on my face and nod as those hurtful comments (mostly bordering on “Looks like you are wearing a chaddi!” and “You have legs like that of a female!”) were hurled at me. Sometimes even the teachers would join in on the fun. It was unpleasant but there was nothing I could do about it.

Then there were the endless finger-pointing, giggles, whispers behind my back and some kids openly mocking and laughing at me every single time I would walk down the stairs or stand in a line at the assembly. I used to hate going to school at one point. And felt extremely uncomfortable being alone in a crowd. I was given horrible nicknames and my height was mocked with such regularity that it just made me an incredibly shy kid, unable to respond to those jibes.

School wasn’t the only place where my height was an issue. I couldn’t escape taunts about my height anywhere I went – the neighbourhood, relatives’ homes, buses, trains… everywhere. I had learned to quietly smile and ignore all the mockeries about my height but after a point, it started to wear me down. Unfortunately, I didn’t have anyone to share this with.

While I was reading that review of the book earlier, one particularly horrible memory came back to gnaw at me. I had shoved this memory very deep inside and never allow it rear its ugly face. But for some reason, it was let out today.

This was back in the sixth grade when I was attending an inter-school sports day in a huge stadium. To avoid the crowds, I located a secluded balcony in one of the top tiers of the stadium and positioned myself in a corner so as to enjoy the activities and avoid any crowds. I had spent a good half an hour there when I heard some commotion from behind me. A teacher from some other school was walking up to me, a bunch of boys behind him.

The man was well-built, wore a tight-fitting white polo shirt and had a bushy mustache. He snorted on seeing me first. Then, eyeing me curiously, from top to bottom,  asked me what I was doing here. I mumbled “Nothing” and tried to get away. But he blocked my path and then, just out of the blue, he suddenly began taking digs at my height.

“What did your parents eat to make you so tall?” he said loudly. It wasn’t really a question; he had a slight sneer on his face when he said so. His students roared in laughter. More rhetorical and nasty comments about my height followed. And there was more raucous laughter from behind him. I could feel myself burning hot in the face and the man kept checking me out, his eyes wide in demented glee as if I was some strange animal in a zoo.

As I tried to make my way past them, the man suddenly turned around and slapped me on the back of my head. It wasn’t a light slap. It was a full-on thwack and it hurt. I moved my head around, stunned at the impact, and saw the boys cackling loudly while the man just stood there, beaming. To avoid further embarrassment, I simply scampered away from the spot, not daring to look back.

This might have felt like a scene from a cheesy film, but it wasn’t. It happened. And I have no idea why.

I remember boarding the school bus back home that evening and being very quiet. A couple of my friends asked me what was wrong and I just said that I had a headache. I didn't have the guts to tell anyone what had happened.

Did I cry? No. I was too ashamed. Too humiliated. Too scarred. I kind of retracted into a shell for a few days. And I guess from thereon my habit of closing myself out from the world from point to point began.

I have never shared that incident with anyone in my life. Not even my mother. This is the first time I have typed it. It didn’t feel good. I don't like remembering that memory. It makes me feel small. And that’s quite ironic, perhaps.

I am not writing this to gain anyone’s sympathy. It is too old an incident to fret over now. But, yes, writing it out made it feel real and, perhaps, I can now accept it and have some closure.

Maybe I should have reacted differently on that day. Maybe not. That is not the point, anyway. The point is that it shouldn’t have happened. But it did.  No 12-year-old child deserves to be treated that way. No 12-year-old boy deserves to be treated differently from the others just because he is taller than the rest.

I hated being stared and pointed at all the time. I hated being asked questions about my height every single day. I hated being mocked and laughed at because I was so tall. I hated standing out in the crowd all the time. I just wanted to be myself. But not many allowed me that privilege.

Things got better eventually, of course. I grew out of my shell and discovered new facets of my personality that were unrelated to my height. I made some great friends along the way who never bothered about how tall I was. And as I passed my teens, my height, I realized, aided my personality. And, yes, sometimes I secretly enjoy the attention my height gives me these days.

I also take regular digs at my own height these days. I enjoy doing so. I guess it was some sort of a defense mechanism I developed much later in life. Also, that experience from my childhood has made me more empathetic towards children. I have felt that whenever I interact with any child who is a little shy or different and somehow I just know how to break the ice with most of them.

Regardless, it wasn't easy being unusually tall as a young boy and being the constant butt of crude and snide remarks. For what felt like years I hated myself and my height. I guess it is a human tendency. They see a gangly, shy and ungainly teenage boy and they take cruel digs on him because he is tall and doesn’t know how to react, not realizing the damage they are inflicting on his psyche.

So the next time you come across an overweight or dark or tall or different-in-any-way kid quit staring and throttle down that urge to pass on any witty remark. Those actions can have a long-lasting damage. And not every kid has the ability to cope with it.

I have mostly made amends with this particular aspect of my past life. But some parts of those days have had a permanent effect on me and I don’t think those scars will just go away. Because even today, when I notice someone giggling behind my back and pointing at me, it makes me cringe a little and immediately brings back a flood of those not-so-memorable memories. It makes me remember me hurrying down the stairs of my school with the other kids sniggering and pointing behind me. It makes me remember the eyes of that man on that stadium after he hit me and the laughter of his students. And it’s not a good feeling.

It will take time, I guess. Hopefully, I would outgrow that part of my life, just like I did with those half pants.

Chapters From My Childhood: When Papa Bought Me A Car

It is Father’s Day today. And I see almost everyone writing great things about their respective fathers. That is very natural. Most of the stories are centered on how their father has been their rock, or their friend, or their guide or protector.

When I think of it, I can’t really explain what my father is to me. He is certainly not my friend. I don’t see him as my guide either. So, what do I see him as? I see him as my father. An honest, loving and caring father. And nothing else matters, really.

My father is a very simple man. He speaks very little. He emotes rarely. And it isn’t very easy to break through his exterior to get a peek inside.

We share a very unusual bond, my father and I. We don’t express much to each other about what we are feeling. We generally stay to ourselves, speaking mostly about cricket or politics or the deplorable condition of Calcutta. I let him enjoy his space. And he lets me be in mine. For some reason, we have always had this strange wall between us. A wall that holds us back. It has been like that for ages. And we are used to it now.

Since its Father’s Day today, I wonder if I should have bought him a gift. I have never really done that, though. We don’t just bring each other gifts. Gift-giving, in fact, is an awkward exercise between the two of us. On my birthday, he simply asks me to get something online. On his birthday, I generally buy him something useful online.

Going out of our way to buy a gift for one another, out of the blue, is something we don't indulge in.

Except for this one day about 25 years back.

I remember this day pretty clearly because it remains the only instance when the wall between the two of us had broken for a few moments. And it had felt good.

**

It was Saturday evening. I entered my room and switched on the television, eagerly waiting for a cartoon show to begin. My father sat on the bed with a huge, red notebook in front of him and a pencil in between his fingers.

I was glued to the television screen when my father asked me to lower the volume. The words barely registered in my head and I just nodded.

“Chiku, lower the volume. I am working,” he said, more firmly this time.

“One minute, Papa,” I mumbled.

“When you're with the Flintstones

Have a yabba-dabba-doo time”

The lyrics of my favorite cartoon show screamed loudly back at me and I swayed my head along with it.

“A dabba-doo time

We'll have a gay old…”

I heard a ‘thud’ and the next moment saw my father get up and switch off the television. His notebook lay sprawled on the floor.

“What part of lowering the volume did you not understand?” said my father angrily. He looked frazzled. And his eyes were red.

I was stunned. My father was known to lose his temper. But he never lost it on me.

“But… I just…” I sputtered.

“No buts…Out you go. I don’t want any disturbance,” he thundered. I had never seen him lose his cool like this.

It felt like he had slapped me right across the face. I got up and left in a huff, my body shaking in fury.

I had just about reached the verandah when I ran into my mother.

“Ah! I was just looking for you. Get me a box of sandesh for bhog, will you? Quick!”

It was dark outside and she couldn’t clearly see the contours of my face. I breathed in a little, and muttered, “Okay!”, making sure she couldn’t see my wet eyes.

She handed me a ten rupee note and left to tend to her gods and goddesses inside the temple room in the verandah.

I stood there for a while, allowing my breathing to normalize. But my insides still stung.

**

Fifteen minutes later, I was standing outside the local mishti shop right opposite our home.

“Five Kalakands, please,” I said thoughtlessly. As I turned around, I noticed a familiar face standing right beside the shop, smoking a cigarette. It was my father. He blew a puff of smoke in the air, looking quite worn out.

Our eyes met for a second. And then, I immediately turned around, intending to get away far from him.

“Chiku! Hey, stop,” he called out.

I ignored him and hurried away.

He caught hold of my right hand. “Hey! Listen, please!”

“Let... Me…Go…” I struggled to let my hand free from his firm grip. But he caught both my hands and turned me around.

“Hey! Hey, I am sorry…Please…I am sorry.”

I couldn’t look at him. But kept staring at the ground below while he held me. My breathing was heavy. But my anger was dissipating. I wasn’t used to such conversations with him. It was awkward. It was embarrassing. I just wanted to run. But then, just like that, I burst out.

Wrapping my arms around my father, right there on the busy pavement, I bawled my heart out. I wept into his shirt, while he caressed my head. “I am sorry, son! I am sorry!” he said again.

After what felt like an hour, he pulled my hands apart, wiped my face and asked me, “Listen, do you want anything? Tell me,” he asked kindly.

I shook my head. But taking me by my hand, he took me to a retail shop nearby.

“Here! Choose anything,” he said.

I was completely taken aback at the turn of events and still felt a little groggy. I looked around at the tiny shop. There was a sea of colorful items. But my eyes instantly fell on the one thing that I had been lusting over for the last one week – a red car. It had been placed strategically on the top shelf of the shop for more than a week and had caught the fancy of many boys in the neighbourhood. The words “James Bond 007” was printed in glossy black letters on its bumper. For the past few days, every afternoon after school, I would get down from the school bus, cross the road and spend a good few minutes just gazing at the gorgeous car.

My father caught me ogling at the car and asked, “You want this?”

I couldn’t say anything. I wasn’t used to such an offer from him.

He got the car from the shop owner and handed it to me. I held it, dazed and confused while my father handed over some cash from the chest pocket of his shirt to the shop owner.

The car looked shiny and smooth and perfect. Every single part of it dazzled. I smelled it. It felt fresh and ready to use.

“Okay, you run along now,” my father said. “I will come in a little later.”

I nodded and turned to leave, my eyes still fixed on the car. It felt surreal.

“And listen,” he called out. He looked a little flustered for some reason. “Um…Don’t mention anything about the cigarette to your mother, okay?”

***

That red car. That was a huge part of my childhood.

I held that car very dearly with me for years. I remember playing with it every day for years while being fed dinner by my mother during dinner. It had a special place in my cupboard for a very long time while I was growing up.

And it wasn’t just because it was a magnificent-looking car – it was. But because it was the first and only gift my father had bought for me on his own. And because of the memories attached to it.

The only time I had hugged my father after that evening was about 15 years later on the morning we were bidding my mother a final adieu. And that is it.

We continue to share an unusual bond, with that wall between us. But after my mother’s passing, we have grown much closer than we ever were. He continues to express his love in subtle ways – drawing the curtains in my room so that the rays of the morning sun don’t fall on my face directly; serving me dinner; making my breakfast. 

I wouldn’t change anything in the relationship we share. Like I said earlier. He isn’t my buddy. And he isn’t my guide. But he is my father. An honest, loving, sincere and caring father. And nothing else matters.

From time to time, however, I will look back on that evening from 25 years ago. My father would have no memory of it, I am certain. But I will remember the red car. I will remember the hug. And I will remember how the wall had broken between us.  Even if it was for just a few moments, it meant the world to me.