The Boy Who Never Grew Up

There was once a little boy,
He grew up a little slow,
He didn’t do much thinking,
He just went with the flow.
And just what the fuss was all about,
He could never really know.

He didn’t bother with the details,
It wasn’t quite his style,
He would stop and listen though,
Every once in a while,
And looking at the world around him,
Would always make him smile.

He found it quite hilarious,
The way they went about,
“It isn’t worth it, people” he was tempted to shout,
Being Grown Up was just no fun,
Of that he had no doubt.

So when the people around him scurried,
And when the world around went wild,
When his Grown Up friends worried,
As the Grown Up problems piled,
Our little friend just stood and stared,
With the wonder of a child.

Part 2

That little boy I used to know,
He Grew Up after a while,
He slowly lost the ‘wonder’
And eventually, lost his smile.

He wasn’t like he used to be,
Being all Grown Up now,
He had quietly gone from boy to Almost Man,
But couldn’t remember how.

His heart had fallen silent now,
He listened only to his head,
He no longer lived for the moment,
But planned twenty years ahead.

He once was made of simple parts,
Which concealed a simple soul;
It was as if those parts had now combined,
To form a complicated whole.

I still look out for that little boy,
But I keep seeing this imposter instead,
And although I wish he was still around,
In my Heart I know he’s dead.

The Cup of Hope (2002)

When you're twenty years old and living in India, it's difficult to feel optimistic about life. The future (and indeed, the present) seems about as bright as India's chances of winning the FIFA World Cup. In 2006. And every time an Ayodhya flares up and a Gujarat burns, slowly, bit-by-bit, our collective faith is reduced to ashes.

It is one of the great ironies of our times that when we lose life and property, we lose it in full public view; but when hope is lost, it is lost quietly, without the fanfare. But it is without doubt the greatest loss of all.

Which is why seemingly non-descript events like the one that took place last week on a bus from Pune to Bombay assume significance. As with most buses across our vast land, this one too proved hopelessly inadequate to accommodate the large numbers that thronged to make the four-hour journey. As they jostled in the aisles and wedged themselves into whatever space was available, I whispered thanks for my seat and leaned back into it. It was going to be a long ride.

Twenty minutes later I was almost asleep when the elderly woman seated next to me slowly got to her feet. She then motioned to one of the women standing to take her seat, which she gratefully accepted. “I'm still strong”, the elderly woman then told me, smiling. “And when we help others, God makes us stronger.” I nodded dumbly, unsure of how to deal with the unexpectedly awkward moment. Nothing, however, could have prepared me for what happened next.

Inspired by the woman's gesture, people all over the bus began standing up and offering their seats to those closest to them. Transfixed, I watched this strange pantomime playing out in front of me; one set of people sitting down and another taking their place in the aisles. I finally got to my feet, as if compelled by some invisible force, and kept standing till we reached our stop.

As I got off the bus and watched it disappear into the distance, I could not help but smile, despite my aching feet. This was no historic event that I had just witnessed; and yet, standing by the side of the road that night, I had found faith again. I knew that fuelled by our own belief, a spark could still burst into flame. And in the dying embers of our disillusionment, there might still be a flicker of hope.

When you're twenty years old and living in India, that's worth a whole lot more than an elusive World Cup.

All Ye Who Sleep Tonight

All ye who sleep tonight,
Far from the ones you love;
With no-one to left or right,
And emptiness above;

Know that you are not alone,
The whole world shares your tears;
Some for two nights or one,
And some for all their years.

- Vikram Seth, All Ye Who Sleep Tonight

Kochumon

"There are lambs in my house, you can take photos of them too" was the first thing he said when he spotted me with my camera. It was only later that I found out that Kochumon helped around my uncle's house, doing odd jobs in order to support his mother and younger sister. He was now about seventeen years old, and having spent most of his childhood with my uncle and aunt, was practically a member of the family. Despite his relative poverty, and the rather unfortunate burden of being called Kochumon (meaning 'small boy') well into his teens, he had a wide smile which now grew even wider as I agreed to accompany him to his home.

It was a small house, dwarfed further by its proximity to the sprawling structure in which my uncle and aunt lived. Kochumon led me into the front yard, excitedly informing his sister that I was there to photograph the lambs. His mother hurried into the house, and emerged with a plate of biscuits. The two lambs were then promptly dragged out of their shed and lined up for the camera. They were followed by chickens, a pair of rabbits, and one very cute kitten. All the while Kochumon never stopped smiling, his eyes glowing with pride as little sections of his private universe were slowly committed to film.

I reached the end of the roll with the picture of the kitten, but Kochumon wasn't finished. He now led me inside his home, and began to re-arrange the furniture; dragging the two chairs, the little tv, his stereo system and his speakers (which he made himself, his mother proudly told me) all to the centre of the tiny room. He then called his mother and asked her to sit in one of the chairs while he knelt beside her with his arm across her shoulder. "'It's ok if you don't get me, but get my mother and the speakers", he said. I nodded, knowing I wouldn't get any of them but lacking the heart to tell him. I positioned the camera and pressed the Off button.

Days later, as I flipped through pictures of lambs, rabbits, and kittens, I realised that the picture I remembered most vividly was the one that I wasn't able to take. Kochumon, kneeling beside his mother, his little tv, and his hand-made speakers. And a smile that conveyed everything and nothing all at once.