Surreal Occurrence

This morning is like every morning – the church bells ring faithfully at 5.45, calling out to mortals to join the believers to practise their faith. I wake up when the bells resonance faintly disappears into the silence of the wakening morning. This follows the blind rituals of washing utensils, cooking for the community of the house that I reside in, and then with folded hands praying for the food that is on the breakfast table, eating in quite. The reflections of the day start the process of inception, where thoughts are yoked together though ideas.

That is normal. But today, there was a surreal awakening to see a stream of events unfold before me – It continues to unwrap, as I decide to capture the thread bare narratives of my mind, along with the occurrences outside.

I see a man come into the House with three little children – they look alike. I smile at them. Greet them and ask them to sit and feel comfortable. I allow myself to look deep at my computer, and stop what I am doing to open this page to write what I see. I know if I were to write about this later – I’d loose vital observations.

I make quiet enquires about the children. I figure in no time that the father, Krishna a thin, lanky man has come with his three children, Satya Vel is 11, Ajith Kumar is eight and the little girl Rajeshweri is 9. They look many years younger to their age. You know that they get to eat just enough to live. I hear the anklets of Rajeshweri, as she walks to the garden when she hears a bus pass by. I see she loves the openness of the garden and the activities of the world outside. Ajith sheepishly follows here, much to the disapproval nudging of the older brother. He sits quite for a long time, looking up to the ceiling. I wonder what he must be thinking.

It took them a while to ease up to the strange faces in the room that looked at each of them carefully.

The boys wear their trousers, short. The hair is long and falls on the shoulder – you don’t see such length of hair for boys normally, if you were to compare them to the schoolboys of the city. Ajith has a side-burn that needs to be trimmed clearly. A visit to the barber would not be high in the priority for the day. The children have a nervous smile. They have come here to this house to be admitted to a school that takes care of dropout children. There are children are not "dropouts". The father cannot manage to look after the children, should he go away to earn a livelihood, or just stay home-bound to take care of the motherless children.

The children tell me they are keen to join the school. I wonder if it will pain them to see their father go away – when they go to the residential school – that clearly is nothing like their house.

Rajeshwari was only a year old, when her mother fell seriously ill, eight years ago. She died unable to recover from her illness that Krishna is unable to describe. Kishna smiles warmly and tells me that he brought her up, like the other children on his own. I soon realise that there is another girl who stays in another home for destitute children away in the city.

I realize not too long, that the mother must have been very young. Krishna was 19 when he married and soon had one child after another. She had borne six children in quick succession, and died young. I try to do the math in my head. I stop myself and do not want to count the chronicles of a young mothers death – not when I see her beautiful children in front of my eyes.

It is a month that the children have not gone to school, and the father cannot manage earning a livelihood and parenting in one stroke. “They are all good in studies, they never failed in any subject” , he tells me. Rajeshwari, has been sitting close to her father, smiles when he says that. I express joy at what I have heard and ask her if she would like to go to the residential school. She says yes! “ what do you want to become when you grow big, chinna”, I ask. “Doctor” she says hiding her face into her father’s arm.

By then there is a bus that passes by, she stands up on her feed to run outside, as her anklets chime to the rhythm of her feet...

A little later, Rajeshwari comes into the room. The room is now empty of people. I have been engrossed feeding the data on a nutrition survey in my computer. She sits quietly, and asks“Akka, what school am I going to? Is it a kannada medium school or Tamil medium?” I tell her that it is a Kannada Medium school. I ask her, how does she feel that she is going to a different school. “I don’t mind it.” “What did you do for the past one month?” I ask. “I had been to Bangalore to be with my sister. She works there.” Curious, I ask her what her sister does there, “She carries stones.”

It has started raining, the father and the other kids have come in. I find out from the father, more about the older daughter : “ I married her off four years ago. She works in Ramnagar. She did not go to school. It is only these children who have been put to school.”

It comes as no surprise that most often the oldest girl-child takes care of bringing up the siblings in the family. It comes as no surprise that she has not gone to school and has been married young and now has migrated to the city to work in the construction field as unorganised labour. The vicious cycle of survival sets in at an early age. “She is carrying now. After four years it is their first child.” I make a mental image of a girl who must be 18 or 19 on the way to motherhood.

The world of innocence is for a world that does not belong here. Life is elsewhere. Here is it existence. Joy lies there. Here it is the sorrow of nothingness.

The rain pours heavily. The monkeys shake the Neem tree for its seeds. It is play time for them. Rajeshweri dusts her skirt and walks up to the door to see the rain pour from tinned roof.

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