Cursed childhood

As I descended from the rickety bus, I cursed the Punjab roadways drivers for rash driving. Cursing all the way, I boarded an auto rickshaw, only to be caught in milieu of crowd.

Looking for help, I spotted a traffic police guy busy talking on his mobile phone, and cursed him for not navigating the crowd at crossing. Cursing all the way I reached home to “discover” yet another power cut and under my breath I swore in name of God and almost abused the bijli wallahs.

The task ahead was to look for a “decent” crèche, in suburb of Chandigarh metro, for my 18 months old son. With the little one in tow, under blazing son, my husband and I left for the crèche hunting on our scooter. Again a cursed left my mouth cursing our income, which did not enable us to buy a car.

Taking a bumpy ride across the city, we zeroed in on the only crèche in area. As soon as I entered the place, around three children sat squatting under sun at 1 noon – obviously playing lost in their own world. At the farther corner of verandah stood two plastic canisters with water for drinking and water for washing hands written on them in Punjabi, despite the fact that content of both canisters seem to be same.

The owner or crèche, a lady in her mid thirties, with unkempt hair and crumpled clothes came to greet us. As we took seats, I again cursed, this time myself for being helpless to leave my child in day care.

Before we can question the day care owner, she started rattling off the “facilities” provided in her two rooms house that double up as crèche for six children from 2 to 6 years of age. Even before she could complete, a charming two years old child came running to her, called her mummy and hid him in her lap.

She kissed the child, ran her fingers through his hair untying his little jooda. “Its bath time for him. He was five months old when his mother left the family. Father is drunkard. Grandparents brought him up and grandma died around six months ago. Its his dadu alone who is bringing him up,” she said.
The child – Bunny – came to this crèche three months ago. For the first month, he interacted with no body. Laid down on the sofa with his little hands crossed behind his head and left quietly in evening with his dadu. Change set in during second month. And now he considers crèche his home and crèche wali aunty his mother.

When innocent Bunny feels sleepy, his “mummy” lies beside him with a bottle of milk and child finds solace in her arms. The otherwise fun-filled Sundays are most traumatic for Bunny – because he is unable to meet his crèche mummy. Dadu says he has no more energy left to bring up the child. And if he leaves Bunny in care of his father, the alcoholic tries to strangulate child.

Tears rolled down my eyes and I looked towards my husband, who was engrossed deep in some thought. We got up silently, kissed Bunny and came back.

I have stopped cursing. For a while. At least my child has both his parents and a loving childhood.

Akhbar wali

How do you explain journalism?

Rather how do you explain being a woman journalist to a Punjabi house wife, who has spent her dog years scrubbing floors, managing cattle, working kitchen economies, giving birth, bringing up children and living a life of near oblivion in her husband’s shadow?

Being a female journalist, from backward and rural area of Bathinda, my presence at spots of murder, accidents, in villages – raised many eyebrows. Many hinted I would never find a groom stating examples of how difficult it is to find husband for a lawyer woman and blah, blah. Others thought I was working for “charity” and “connections”.

After joining Ludhiana, I was relieved to find a change in perspective and greater acceptance of being a woman journalist. But perhaps my happiness was short lived.

As I descended down the stairs of my place and was about to kick off for the day, my landlord’s ma-in-law, who was from Faridkot (another Malwa belt inhabitant) spotted me and called out, “Beta, tusin akhbar che kamm karde hon” (Dear, do you work with a newspaper).

I joined her on the charpoy and nodded in yes. She further went on, “E taan bada aukkha kamm e. Badi mehnat da kamm e” (This is a very difficult and strenuous job).

Finally, my heart said, see here is someone who realizes your hardships. And before I could reply her with thanks, she hastily added, “Pehlan khabaran labbo, pher likho, pher chhaapo te pher savere akhbar vandan jao. Bada aukkha e” (First hunt for the news, then write them, then publish them and go early in the morning to distribute newspapers).

I looked at her in utter surprise, speechless, wound up the conversation and moved on for my day wondering what she had just said.

Later, when I shared this with one of my colleagues, he too had a similar incidence to share when his relatives asked how he made a living.

By the time both of us had guffaws and laughed over the issue, I asked him to which place his relatives belonged?

He answered FARIDKOT.

(The picture is of Homai Vyarawala India's first woman photo journalist. She had a tougher job than mine)

Numb scribes

“Have these mouthwatering samosas. Try this tamarind chutney with it,” said my colleague with an infectious enthusiasm and large smile pasted on her face.

Even before I could lay my hands on the oily stuff, others in the room had already devoured this delicacy and washed it down with cups of cold drinks.

Turning towards my host I asked, “What are you partying about today? Anything special.” And prompt cam the reply, “Haven’t you seen my byline on page one today describing tragic death of people? Everyone congratulated me for the unusual feat and I had to oblige them with a party.”

With these words she got up swayed away to another seat offering food to another colleague. I could barely manage to finish the contents in my plate and slyly put it under the table.
Once again I was brought face to face with people celebrating deaths. And I suddenly remembered behind every story there is yet another story. A story of jubilation over death. A story of partying on fatal accidents. A tale of congratulatory notes and SMSes.

Death always makes news. More tragic the incident, greater the casualties, make perfect equation for hitting page one.

Much goes on in scribe’s mind than is visible to an eye.

Mind giggles but face shows depressing thought when unusual number of causalities are reported. Fingers charmingly move at fast pace to send death reports to be published on the front page.

Tragedies have unveiled many faces that remain hidden behind masks of love, sympathy and caring.

But then I suddenly remembered that my profession is a place where one gets paid for numbness and insensitivity of mind and heart.