The Song of Happiness

The waning sun found the seven-year-old Radha sitting under a streetlamp, eating a chapatti with half-baked potatoes. She saw a brown-coat puppy walking the along the edge of the road, sniffing the plastic cups, paan-spits and ice cream sticks.

Radha leaned towards him and said, “Hey little doggie, have you lost something?”

He turned his head and looked at her. He blinked and then began sniffing again. She picked him up and said, “Please tell me little doggie, I will also look with you.”

He uttered a low mewl and then tried to spring down from her arms.

“What happened, you look so sad.” She loosened her grip, but he didn’t spring out. He turned absolutely still and looked solemnly at the leftover potatoes on the newspaper.

“Little doggie, are you hungry? Why, have you not eaten anything?”

Radha took out a piece of dry chapatti from her pocket; the puppy grabbed it and hurriedly ate it. She put him on the newspaper, and he ate all the potatoes. Then he sat down and wagged his little tail.

“You liked it, little doggie? I cooked it. Mamma also liked what I cooked,” Radha said, patting his head, “Okay, now that your tummy is full, you should go back. Your mamma will be looking for you. If she sees you here, she will say, ‘You bad bad girl! You are trying to take away my little child from me!’ My Mamma also got very worried when I come home late. Now go home little doggie, it is very late.”

Radha left the puppy on the newspaper and went down the twilit road, dancing on the notes of a song which, her Mamma used to say, a very old lady sings every night, while she sits on the moon, gently rocking in her chair, spinning something. Radha always wondered what the lady looked like, how many grand-children she had, whether she knew any stories, and what she was spinning. Radha looked at the moon. She couldn’t see her, but she could hear the soft and clear song. It filled the air with happiness. If you opened your mouth and inhaled, the happiness went inside. If you stretched out your hands, happiness stuck to your fingers.

Radha saw a shadow walking besides her: it was short, had four feet, was oblivious of the song, but was trying to match with the rhythm of her dance. She turned around and saw the puppy. She stooped and said,

“Why are you following me, little doggie? Go back to your Mamma now, fast!”

She gently pushed it. “Come on now, go.”

She started walking again. The puppy stood there for a moment, silent, its sober eyes fixed on Radha, before following her again.

“You silly doggie! If Pa sees you he will beat me! Go away.” She picked up a small stone and threw it at him. It failed to produce an effect more than a blink in his eye. She threw a larger stone. The puppy looked down, whined, and went away. Radha could still hear the song, but she didn’t dance now.

She was soon inside the open ground, where she could see her shack standing among the squalor of gullies and gutters. She took a scrubber and squatted next to a bucket of clothes immersed in soap water.

It started raining. Amidst the clamor of rain, she could hear muffled whines. She went towards the ox-cart, stooped, and saw the puppy, wet, shivering, and looking at her. Then he looked down and tried to hide his face among his paws.

“You bad doggie! I knew you had not gone! Now it has started raining and you will catch cold and your mamma will scold me.”

She picked him up and crouched under the cart. She softly slapped his head and said, “Now, tell me, why didn’t you go back to your mamma, hmm?”

The puppy looked down and hid its face in her arm, and mewled.

After a minute she spoke,

“You don’t have a mamma, do you?”

She took out a cloth from her pocket and rolled the puppy in it. He stopped shivering. They silently looked at the rain. Radha spoke softly,

“I miss my Mamma. She was a good human. She never beat me. She even brought me clothes on my birthday. Before she went to live with God, I used to play with other children. But now I don’t, because Pa sends me to beg, and everyday I go to bus stop and beg, and I don’t have a bowl also. People there don’t treat me nicely. I don’t like to beg. People curse me and push me and some even take my money and run away, and when I get home with less money, Pa beats me. And I even wash clothes all night. Still he beats me. Mamma never ever beat me. Never. If Mamma were not living with God, she would not have allowed me to wash clothes or beg or Pa to beat me. I miss my Mamma. You also miss your mamma little doggie, hmm?”

The puppy turned his head and looked into Radha’s eyes for a moment, and then he looked back at the rain drops as they fell on the road and died. Radha envied these rain drops sometimes. They don’t beg or wash clothes, or have a bad father. They just fall and die.

“I don’t have any friend also. Little doggie, you want to be my friend?”

Radha took out its paw from the cloth folds, and gently shook it.

“Now that we are friends, I am sorry I hit you with a stone.” She held her earlobes and said, “Very very sorry. I wanted you to go away because if Pa saw us, he would beat us. He never tells why he beats, but he still beats. He is bad human. I don’t like Pa. Mamma said he is a bad man. Your Pa is also a bad man little doggie, hmm?”

She bent her head and searched for him in the folds of the cloth roll. He was asleep. The calmness on his face resembled that of the baby who, having cried all night, falls asleep when the morning suns rises from the ocean bed and comes out to greet him. When Radha looked at him, she felt what the mother feels when she wakes up and sees her calm little baby lying asleep next to her. A smile flitted across Radha’s lips. The puppy moved his head and rested it against her palm. His warmth felt lovely; it thawed the coldness of her arms. She slowly moved her palm away, in case the blisters of her skin hurt it.

Radha noticed something moving near her feet. She looked down and saw a mouse nibbling at her clothes. The puppy woke up and looked at Radha’s eyes; they were fixed on the ground, chocked with the fear that had failed to come out as a shriek. With puzzled eyes, it looked down at her curled up toes. The sumptuous feast of the mouse was brought to a standstill when it heard the loud bark of a big creature whose head was emerging out of a cloth roll. Terrified, it jumped several feet in the air—the puppy and Radha shrunk back with amazement—and fell in an old shoe nearby. It didn’t come out that night. Radja said agitatedly, “No little doggie, you should not, you should not! Mouse can harm you. They can bite you. They once bit my ear when I was asleep. You should not.” The puppy paid no attention; he fastened his paws around her palm and dozed off. She caressed his head with her fingers, and looked at the soft falling shower. Behind the translucent curtain of rain, she saw a large-built figure, holding a bottle, trodding towards her. She put the puppy down and rushed out.

“Pa, Pa, I was just washing, then rain came . . . Pa I—”

He slapped her and showered curses. She fell down; he kicked her in the stomach with his army boots. Radha lay curled up on the wet road. She didn’t shriek or shout. She just counted the seconds that passed.

“Where is the money?” he asked, “You bitch! You are late, and I won’t be able to go today! You’re good for nothing, you bitch! Why didn’t you just die with your mother?”

Radha took out a sack from her pocket and handed it over to him. Before he could start counting them, he felt a pinch in his leg. He looked down and saw a puppy’s teeth trying to dig into his flesh. He kicked him with his other leg. The puppy fell at some distance, and tried to stand up. He went near the puppy and pressed his hard sole over it. He uttered low squeaks, whose audible range was not beyond his own breath. Radha held his boot and tried with her flimsy fingers to lift it off, uttering, “No Pa no! He is small—don’t don’t, it does hurt him it does, he is very small now I will get more money tomorrow, don’t hurt him he is small now, Pa don’t, Pa—”

He said, “You bitch! So this was why you were late? Playing around with dogs!” The puppy stopped wriggling, and its squeaks slowed down and then ceased. He said, “If you ever get late from now on, I will kill you like I killed this pup. Understand?” He slapped her and walked towards the infamous streets, whose glitter first attracted, then blinded.

Radha crawled towards the puppy and whispered in a low voice, “Wake up friend, wake up. He’s gone, he’s gone. Wake up!”

It lay still. Still as the road. Still as the moon. Still as her Mamma.

She shook him and said, “Wake up bad doggie, wake up, otherwise I won’t talk to you, I won’t, I won’t. Never. Wake up—

But no, it wouldn’t wake up. And she soon knew why. Five years back, when she shook her Mamma, who lay on the floor, absolutely still, she knew why she wouldn’t wake up. Mamma had left her alone and gone to live with God. Her new little friend did the same. And she knew it. She looked at the dead puppy for a minute, and then hit it with her hand. She hated him. She hated her Mamma. They all left her alone and went to live with God.

She picked up the puppy and ran, without crying, to the cemetery. She jumped over the fence, dug a small hole next to the wall, and buried him there. She joined her hands and prayed..

She quickly bent her head and whispered, “Oh! I forgot. When you meet Mama, tell her I’m fine.”

She was too tired to go away. She lay down next to the gutter and placed her head on a stone. She picked up a small caterpillar that was trying to make its way up a plant, and fondled it. She cried now also. All the beetles and worms hid under the wet soil. The caterpillar curled up and shivered. Radha flung it in the air and uttered a loud wail. For an hour, she turned her head left and right and cried and pounded the soil with her fist, talked in low whispers to the grave. And then a breeze blew: cold, shuddery, with a sharp whistling sound. Along with the breeze flowed the notes of the song which a very old lady sings every night as she sits on the moon, gently rocking in her chair. As the notes passed by, happiness fell from them and stuck to her arms, legs, mouth, hair and eyes. She stopped crying, as Sleep took her in her arms and sang a lullaby. She entered the world of dreams: her Mamma and her little doggie and she were playing ice-water in a lovely garden with pink chrysanthemums, green green grass, big big clouds, a smiling and happy sun, and fluffy rabbits jumping up and down. They all were laughing. No one was crying. They all were with her. No one was with God.

oCharacter Development

oPlot

oDialog

oSetting

oMechanics

oInline Comments

The Gangs

The Gangs

We went to watch the movie Josh, starring Shahrukh Khan. When we came out of the theater we felt a strange sensation in our body. From the world of Shahrukh Khan and his Eagle gang we had suddenly been thrown into the real world. Our mind was reluctant to absorb this fact. We sat under the peepul tree in silence. Buntu spoke, “Blockbuster movie. It is the best movie made in history.” We added: “Absolutely,” “I agree,” “No doubt.”

Aman came to tell us that we were getting late for the cricket match. Playing cricket with these twelve-year-old children every Sunday – it seemed so childish now. “No yaar, we’re not in a mood today,” said Michael. We sat there quietly and parted before dusk. Josh had stirred something in us, and we needed some time to understand what it was. When we met the next morning we agreed in unison that we had to make a gang of our own.

We were sitting under the peepul tree that afternoon, waiting for Atif. Atif parked his dazzling new Karizma next to our Scooties and Activas. He took off his Fastrack shades and hung them over his collar. At fourteen, he was the eldest in our group (sixteen, if rumors were to be believed). He always tied a handkerchief around his left knee, over his baggy jeans. He had handsome blue eyes and fair skin. He brought with him an odor of sophistication and class. We felt proud as he smiled and gave us high-five.

We congratulated him on his new Karizma and told him that we had worked out new names for ourselves. I, Dinesh, became Danger Dinesh. My cousin Michael became Michael Murder. Buntu became Buntu Bomb, and his younger brother Chotu – the youngest of our group – became Chotu Chhuri. Atif looked hesitant. When we asked him what name he wanted for himself, he said, “No, no, call me Atif only.”

Atif suggested the gang’s name to be Fast Bikers. We wanted it to be Eagle gang. He sighed, “Yaar, let me make one thing clear – we are not playing a game here. I am serious about this gang. We will have our own, original name. Get that movie Josh out of your heads. Understand?”

Just then, Chotu Chhuri came running. Before we could say anything, he burst out, “I am Max. I said it first.” (For those who don’t know: Max was Shahrukh Khan’s name in Josh.) Atif kept his cell phone in his pocket and stared at Chotu Chhuri. Chotu Chhuri’s face lost its mirth, and he looked at us. We pretended to talk to the paanwalla. Atif said in a calm voice, “Come here, Chotu Chutiyea. Come here.” Chotu Chhuri stepped closer. Atif said, “What do you think we are doing here, huh? Speak up.” Atif continued, “Tell me, are we playing a game here? Or are we enacting the movie Josh? Speak up, don’t be afraid. I won’t squeeze your balls.” Atif patted Chotu Chhuri’s back, and said, “Run home, little kid, run home. Play hide-and-seek or Josh-Josh with your friends. Come back after some years, when your milk teeth come out – we will include you in our gang then. Now go away, shoo, shoo.”

Chotu Chhuri ran away on the verge of tears.

We told Atif that Fast Bikers was a better name than Eagle gang. Michael Murder asked if Delhi Sandwich stall could become our hideout. We ruled it out because it was too crowded. We felt Juice Walla was better. Hardly any customers came there. Juice Walla was new in our city. Prakash worked on the juice machine, while his father Ramnarayan crushed ice and served the sugarcane juice to customers. We arranged our vehicles around Juice Walla and drank fruit beer. We didn’t like its taste, and were often tempted by the sugarcane juice. This is strong – it’s a man’s drink, we told ourselves. That thing is for children.

Buntu Bomb showed us his new Mouser one day. We gave him money and next day he bought each of us a Mouser and two packets of plastic pellets. “Come here,” Atif said to me. “It won’t hurt much.”

“Why can’t you try it on Buntu Bomb or Michael Murder.”

“Now why is your penis quivering with fear, huh?”

Atif shot at my hand. It was painful, but wasn’t as bad as I had thought. It left a small red mark.

We usually gathered at the Juice Walla by four in the evening. We drank fruit beer, talked loudly, guffawed, cursed, and shot with our Mousers in the air, while people stared at us. Sometimes little children gathered around us and asked if we were drinking a new type of Pepsi. Their mothers were quick to grab and pull them back. We usually parted before dusk.

Buntu Bomb knew how to drive his Activa, but it was Chotu Chhuri who came to drop him each day at Juice Walla. Chotu Chhuri would stroll about at some distance from us, kicking stones and cellophanes, drinking soda, and smiling at us every now and then. When Atif went to pee, he dropped by for a small chat and offered us his soda. We still called him Chotu Chhuri.

We soon realized that we had started getting bored. We didn’t feel like we were a gang. When we conveyed this to Atif, he told us to stay longer by the Juice Walla that day. He said he had made arrangements for our entertainment. At ten o’clock, a deafening cacophony pierced the dark. A pigmy bike staggered down the road. We saw an extremely fat, puny boy sitting on it, gleefully accelerating his beloved bike. Atif called out, “Hey you, come here.” The blare died in mid-air as the boy stopped his bike and looked at us, aghast. I shouted, “Are you deaf? Didn’t you hear what he said?” The boy looked around for help. I lost my temper: “Madarchod this is the last time I am shouting – come here.” The boy accelerated his bike, but it had hardly lurched a few meters before I dashed and caught him by his collar. I took him before Atif. The boy said tearfully, “Bhaiya, I was not running away. I swear. I was just . . . just taking a U turn. I swear on Mother Earth, I am not lying. I will swear on anything you want—”

Atif kept his cell phone in his pocket and stared at the boy. The boy stopped his blabber and looked at us. We pretended to look at his bike, and whispered amongst us: “Now he’s gone,” “No one can save him.”

Atif said in a calm voice, “Come here, aaloo-tikki.”

The boy looked at us.

Atif continued, “I am talking to you. Yes, you, aaloo-tikki. What do you think we are, huh? Speak.”

The boy mumbled, “I am sorry, I am sorry . . . let me go.”

Atif continued, “No, no, you don’t have to say sorry. You didn’t fuck my sister. What I am asking is – what do you think we are? Rapists? Murderers? The way you were running away – did you think we were going to gang rape and murder you? Don’t worry. Speak up. I won’t squeeze your balls.”

Aaloo-tikki was now crying. “Let me go . . . please, please, please.”

Atif looked at the pigmy bike and said, “From where did you get that cycle of yours?”

Aaloo-tikki looked around. Atif took out his mouser and shot at the bike’s petrol tank, and said, “That cycle.”

The gun didn’t scare off Aaloo-tikki. Aaloo-tikki said, “Raju Uncle bought it from Bombay.”

Buntu Bomb sat on the pigmy bike and asked, “Aaloo-tikki, where are the paddles?”

“There are no paddles. You have to accelerate it.”

Michael Murder kicked the bike’s engine and said, “It looks weak. I don’t think it will make it till monsoon.”

Aaloo-tikki cried, “Please . . . let me go. I join me hands in front of you.”

Atif inserted a rolled newspaper in the exhaust pipe and said, “Now it won’t make noise.”

When Aaloo-tikki tried to take it off, Michael Murder said, “Chutiyea, if you take that out, that thing will again make a lot of noise. Let it remain.”

Aaloo-tikki asked, “Then how will I drive?”

“Ask your Papa.”

Aaloo-tikki sat on his bike and wiped his tears. When we were not looking, he threw off the paper roll and tried to run away on his bike. We laughed. A few seconds later, Michael Murder screamed. “Who’s this madarchod—” We turned around and saw Aaloo-tikki standing in the dark, shouting, “You bhenchod, madarchod, harami.” He was holding a Desert Eagle. He shot again. This time it hit my head. It pained twice more than our Mousers. He fired two more shots and then sped away before we could catch him.

“Saala harami,” Buntu Bomb said, “I know where he lives.”

We went to Aaloo-tikki’s house and punctured his bike, smashed the rear-view mirrors, and broke the footrest. We never saw him in Chowk again.

It was Sunday. Chotu Chhuri was sitting with us, laughing at our jokes and praising our bravery. I noticed that Atif was looking troubled. I asked him what happened. Atif mumbled, “Those football-kids seem too excited nowadays. We need to teach them a lesson.

“I have an idea. Follow me.”

Numerous puny little boys came to Chowk at different times after dusk to practice their cycling skills, bike-riding skills or pillion-riding skills. For a few days after the Aaloo-tikki incident we got at least one catch each day. Because of our rising popularity, there was a sudden efflux of such kids. Those who did come came with their elder brothers. We hadn’t got a catch since two days and were dying with boredom. Messing with the football-kids was a welcomed relief.

Football-kids was a group of five weather-beaten, knickers-wearing, nose-picking kids who played football day and night near the jewelry shops. It was rumored that they were once Atif’s friends.

We parked our vehicles in a line next to the Delhi Sandwich, blocking the narrow lane from where they would come. From a small stall, Delhi Sandwich had turned into a shop that sold three types of juices, and bhelpuri, apart from seven types of sandwiches. It also had seating arrangements. Juice Walla didn’t have any chairs or the prefix Delhi, and didn’t give a free straw with every glass of juice: his business had come to a standstill. Prakash had injured his hand with the machine, so Ramnarayan rotated the machine, while his veiled, sad-looking wife served the customers. When not on the machine, Ramnarayan stopped random passers-by and advertised his juice.

While we waited for the football-kids, Chotu Chhuri sponsored sandwiches and sugarcane juices from Delhi Sandwich. We saw a football-kid coming along the road. Atif blocked his way with his hockey stick (we all kept hockey sticks now) and said, “Go and fuck somewhere else. This is our area from now on.”

The boy ran away, but turned back every five steps to shout, “Wait right there. Right there. I’ll come back . . . just let the shops go down. Wait right there.”

Atif turned to Chotu Chhuri, “There will be bloodshed today. Go and get your hockey stick. You’re in the gang.” Chotu Chhuri ran away gleefully. Football-kids came as soon as the shops were down.

Michael Murder shouted, “Abbey oye! Back off, this is our area.”

One of them shouted back, “Abbey oye! You back off!”

“Abbey oye! Do you know whom you’re talking to?”

“Abbey oye!”

Atif drew a line on the road with a piece of brick, and said, “If you cross this line, I’ll squeeze your balls.”

We showered insults and abuses on them. When they abused back, we started laughing and mocked that their voices sounded like girls’ (we had pre-planned this). We told them to get their brooms and bangles before we started fighting. Their faces turned grave. They replied back by mocking our names. We hadn’t expected this, and were out of words. We felt we were losing, when suddenly Buntu Bomb pushed a fat boy of their group. The fat boy pushed him back. They held each others’ collars for a minute, before leaving them and we went back to abuses. Suddenly, Michael Murder and the leader of football-kids started fighting. They rolled on the road, and cursed and threatened each other, while we shouted encouragements. Then they separated and we went back to abuses.

After half an hour, the tired football-kids started going back. They turned their heads every two steps to abuse us. Chotu Chhuri came running, holding aloft a hockey stick, and before we could stop him, he hit one of the football-kids. We dashed over before they could harm Chotu Chhuri. After a long of negotiation, it was agreed that the fallen kid would hit Chotu Chhuri to even the matter. The fallen kid kicked Chotu Chhuri in the butt with his NCC boots. Chotu Chhuri stood up and started laughing and said that it felt like an ant sting. Their leader said, “This is not over,” and the football-kids went away. Chotu Chhuri wiped his tears and said, “Yes, it is not over.”

We had won. We felt proud and powerful as we rode through the sleeping Old City. To celebrate our victory we dined out together. Chotu Chhuri ate while standing up: his touchy ass wouldn’t allow him to sit. We went to Lover’s Point and stopped by the cars and took our turns peeping in the tinted glass windows, expecting to see a couple making love. We were disappointed. Atif had bought a packet of cigarettes with him. It was the first time for me, Buntu Bomb and Chotu Chhuri. We had hardly touched it with our lips before we started coughing. Atif and Michael smoked two each. We drank our fruit beers and made merry.

We felt that our decision to change our names was a bit childish. We reverted back to our original names.

The next morning I found my Activa punctured and the petrol tank empty. I found Atif and Michael under the peepul tree. The same had happened with them. An hour later we saw Buntu coming on his Activa. He was sitting over the dickey and Chotu was sitting on a pillow above the petrol tank. “Those madarchod took away our seat,” Chotu said.

We found the football-kids eating sandwiches at Delhi Sandwich. They started laughing when they saw us. Michael shouted, “Don’t show your teeth homeless kids, they are dirty.” Their laughter died. The words ‘Homeless Kids’ were apt because we had never really seen these kids entering in or coming out of a house. “Good one,” said Buntu, patting Michael’s back.

We were sitting around the Juice Walla, pondering over our next action. Atif said, “I think we should just break into Delhi Sandwich and smash all the things.” We didn’t understand the joke, but laughed anyway. When we stopped, we saw Atif’s solemn face staring at us. “I’m serious,” he said. “Listen. Let me explain. Tell me – who owns Delhi Sandwich? Mustan Ali. Mustan Ali is the father of Hamza and Nadeem – two of the Homeless Kids.

We will break into Delhi Sandwich and smash all the things. It is our revenge. They threw a brick, we will answer with a stone.

There was silence and antagonism in the air. We looked around uneasily, trying to figure out what the others were thinking. Buntu spoke hesitantly, “Atif, but . . . we are going over the top now. This is not required . . . I mean we can beat them or something—”

Atif shouted, “Why, is your penis quivering with fear bhenchod?”

Buntu looked helplessly at me and Michael.

Atif said, “Those who think they are a man – prove it by meeting me under the peepul tree at eleven o’clock. The eunuchs can stay in their house with their quivering penises.”

At half past ten I stopped by Buntu’s house to ask him if he was coming. I rung the door bell for fifteen minutes and called out his name, but no one answered. Chotu leaned across the veranda for a fleeting second. A servant approached me and said no one was at home. When I protested, he tried to push me. “Bloody dogs,” I muttered as I drove alone toward the peepul tree.

I found only Atif there. “So,” I said, “it seems Michael didn’t come.” Atif was visibly hurt. Michael mattered more to him that any of us. Atif said, “Let wait for half an hour.” Michael didn’t come, but Buntu did. We wore masks and went to Delhi Sandwich. Atif had the right key with him. We didn’t ask him from where he got it. We went in and pulled down the shutters after us. We squashed the fruits, dismantled the juicers, and poured all the masalas on the floor.

Buntu said, “Yaar . . . just come here for a second.” Buntu’s torch was pointing at a fat man crouched in a corner, shivering. Probably a worker. A cold liquid gathered around my toes. I looked down and said, “He pissed.” We laughed. While we were tying him with a rope, I saw a telephone next to where the man had been sleeping. “He must have called the police,” Atif suggested. We looked at each other in horror. Just then, someone banged the shutter. A voice called from outside, “You’re all dead today.”

I saw Mummy and Papa coming along the road. Papa looked weak, and didn’t raise his eyes from the ground. Mummy was holding his hand, like he was an old man unable to bear his own weight. I tried to give Papa an explanation, but he pushed me and walked towards Mustan Ali, the owner of Delhi Sandwich. Mummy had always warned me against Atif and Michael. We often had fights over this at home. This time I knew she would beat me with my grandfather’s baton in front of everybody. When she came running towards me, I ducked and shielded myself with my hands. She hugged me. It felt odd. She hadn’t hugged me since I was four years old. I looked up and saw that she was crying. She held her hand across by back and took me across the street. We sat on a platform. “Don’t cry,” she said, “nothing will happen. Your Papa and I are here, don’t cry.” Papa and Buntu’s father were trying to reason with Mustan Ali. They begged him not to call the police, we were just children. Mustan Ali’s voice towered above them. It seemed he was just about to strike them. Papa had a famous jewelry shop, and I had always seen people coming to him and begging for job or money or discount. It was the first time I had seen Papa begging. He looked so helpless. I had thought that we would somehow make our way through this muddle, and then get back to our gang the next day. But the look on Papa’s face made me realize how heartless and foolish I was. I prayed for God to come down and fast forward the time so that we could get back to our lives, and I would get a chance to atone for my mistakes. I promised God I will forget the gang. I will study and get good marks. I will never make my parents cry. I will always keep them happy.

No one from Atif’s family was in city. He was sitting alone on his bike. Every now and then someone would come and chide him, call him a goonda or hit him on his head. Buntu was crying in his father’s car, while his mother shouted and hit him. I could hear the sound of her bangles breaking. Chotu came with his uncle after some time and surveyed the scene like a high-rank police officer. Chotu, Buntu and their uncle went away.

When Papa offered Mustan Ali money, he grew furious and moved towards him. My heart pounded. I felt Mustan Ali would hit Papa, and Papa would go to the hospital in a serious condition, and I would never see him again. Mummy was still holding me tightly and mumbling consoling words.

Papa and Buntu’s father finally convinced Mustan Ali. Buntu’s father had enough money in his wallet. Papa walked home to get the money. When Mustan Ali or Buntu’s father came to scold me, Mummy grew furious, tightened her grip around my back, and shouted back at them. She had bought puri and pickles with her. I wasn’t hungry, but she force fed me two puris. Papa gave Mustan Ali the money, but Mustan Ali still kept shouting. I saw Papa take out his watch and hand it over.

Some people had come out of their houses to stare at us. After Mustan Ali had gone away, two of them approached Papa. One of them was Aaloo-tikki. The other one was his father, and probable an acquaintance of Papa. I tried to lean closer but Mummy wouldn’t allow me to move. From the little I could hear, I made it out that Aaloo-tikki was telling my father how I and my friends had insulted him, beat him and damaged his bike.

As we walked home, Mummy kept asking me what I wanted her to cook when we got home. Papa didn’t speak.

At home, Papa sat on the sofa and buried his head in his hand. I stood in front of him. My sister, cousin brother, and Mummy were standing behind me. With lightning-fast speed, Papa picked up the telephone directory and started hitting me with it. Mummy dashed forward, snatched the directory from him, and stood shielding me. She glared at Papa, and said, “He’s just a child.” Papa sat down again, and told me in a tearful voice that I had bought disgrace to the whole family. I had ruined his name.

I wept. “I’m sorry.”

Papa said that he always knew Atif was a goonda. Atif’s brother was sent to jail for two months because Mustan Ali had caught him thieving. Atif was taking revenge by breaking into his shop, Mustan Ali had told Papa.

Mummy said, “This is what happens to boys who don’t have parents to look after them. Atif is a number one goonda.”

My younger sister narrated the incident when Atif had badly beaten her friend’s brother, even though her friend’s brother had done nothing. “He is a number one goonda,” Mummy repeated.

Mummy looked at me for confirmation. I jerked away her hand, ran upstairs and threw myself on my bed.

There was something sinister about Mustan Ali’s face. I was sure he was lying to Papa. Or perhaps Papa was lying to me. I refused to believe Atif had used us for his own purpose. Atif was not like that. I knew it.

My sister and cousin brother peeped into my room every two minutes, like I was a sleeping dinosaur. Mummy came in after half an hour. She scolded them, “Go away, don’t disturb us. He will talk to his mother now.” Mummy raised my head from the pillow and kept in her lap. “OK, now, stop crying and talk to me nicely.” I pulled my head back on the pillow. She said, “Look at me, and stop crying. Talk nicely. Tell me – you want to buy something? A new bag? I will buy it, tell me now—” When she tried to flip me over, I resisted. My hand accidentally hit her mouth. She remained still for a minute and then she walked out.