A sultry saturday!

These reticent drizzles,tangy lilac flowers and rusted rims get me nostalgic.

My wayward mind visits that lazy Saturday afternoon.
It was the time when Bangalore was getting hotter and I worldly. I was reading between the lines, overhearing adult conversations. Sensing pain. Fearing future. And trying to make sense of my haphazard past. I was growing up.

I have a striking memory of that day. It was the usual cacophony at our “mane”; we have always been so animated. We were told that there was a theater group setting up stage for a performance that evening. And I recollect the exuberance that filled the air. Running to the top floor, banging at the doors and running down back to our play home; we did this all through the afternoon.

They all visited us once in a while. Some with clothes, some with food. Others to take pictures they could flaunt. Most were sympathetic, few genuinely concerned.

It didn’t matter to us what they wanted to take away, being with new people got us ecstatic. We would run to them, introduce ourselves, sing and dance. And when darkness engulfed us, dream about being on the other side. Wake up groggy for yet another day.

Yes, we all had painful pasts; most of us were rescued from the torturous world of child abuse. Ironically, we were always full of life. We discussed about our wretched past, like the agony didn’t matter anymore. And never did. Like we were reading out pages from an encyclopedia, like it was just a fact file. Like it was/is trivial. It is that naivety that I treasure.

We shared everything. Food, clothes, pencils and dreams. Most of us were very talented; it was just about nurturing and channelising it in the right direction. Which essentially was what our home tried to do. But for me and for a lot of us, it was not about talents or leading meaningful lives. It was about having food to eat thrice a day, about having clothes to wrap around and a place to call our own. And ofcourse not be beaten up.

Coming back to that sultry Saturday. For a long time, I believed they were an international play troupe or something of that sort. Recently my interest in theater led me to read a lot about the styles of theater and I learnt about “play-backs” and related it to their performances.

They asked us to narrate stories from our lives. Incidents that they enact out impromptu. It was all so new and funny.Im sure none of us could fathom what was happening but the entire hullabaloo was giving us the kicks.

Sudipto was hyper; desperate to narrate his story. He came up to the stage and told them how he made his living picking empty bottles at the railway station. He told us about the church that rescued him, about the drugs and drudgery. And these actors enacted out the story immediately. What fun that was, we were hooting and laughing.

I wonder how it would be if an adult had to narrate that story; or someone more dramatic! I guess it would have sounded heart bleeding. He just stated the events, as if he was tearing off pages one after the other from his life’s calendar.

When the actors enacted the story, at some point I turned to look at him. He looked dazed. Like in a trance. I smiled at him, but I don’t think he noticed. When I looked at him again at the end of the performance he was smiling.

I wonder if he felt like taking off a burdening pile of luggage on his back and flinging it far. It must have felt light.

Then ofcourse my turn came. Rather I volunteered to tell my story. Not sure why. I didn’t know what I was going to say when I raised my hand. I don’t know if it was just for the high attention gives or if I really wanted my life enacted out.

I started off with “I got home that day from school and realized mom wasn’t there.She had left us”. I was surely not articulate then, and I didn’t know where to start and where to end. Story telling wasn’t my forte. However as I spoke, the conductor encouraged me to tell them how I got to APSA as. And I did. Almost.

I try hard but fail to recollect what and how I described my journey to APSA. I spoke about the physical pain. I spoke about being beaten up.And ofcourse about “Ajji”. As I watched the group perform my story, I was awed. Or something like that, something I can’t really describe but still sense.

It was peculiar to see myself on stage. My life in words. There was someone from the troupe sitting next to me, holding my hand. And I guess my eyes were filled with tears. No, I don’t think I cried.

If they ask me today about what I had gone through I might not say any of that.
I would tell them how I yearned for my mother’s warmth, how I sneaked into guddi’s study and browsed through her rhymes when I was supposed to be cleaning up the vessels, about dancing in rain when my granny went shopping. About crying in pain through the nights, as I rubbed the dish wash powder against the wounds hoping they would heal and alleviate the pain.

I would tell them how I longed for a family. For I wish I was one of them;normal and happy. However, I would also tell them that things have changed.

I didn’t cry then, for I didn’t understand mental agony. And I didn’t realize how it was to be orphaned. Not completely.

I don’t cry now, for I understand mental agony. And I know that the worst is over.I full understand what it is to be orphaned.

I will tell them that the past doesn’t cripple me anymore. That I have million reasons to smile.

And million others to celebrate my life.I wish they would enact my story now.