Dreams are funny.
Dreaming small is a crime, said the Late President Kalam in a speech not long ago... But to dream big is to be privileged mentioned none.
Here I am, cooling off after yet another uneventful day, at the temple square. Looking at people hustle about left and right during a festive time. The outskirts of the temple or church are the busiest at such a time and playing mute spectator to this much activity brings me an inexplicable calm. Thoughts run amok, and soon I find myself thinking about what could have been if things went according to 'plan.'
Dreaming small is a crime, said the Late President Kalam in a speech not long ago... But to dream big is to be privileged mentioned none.
Here I am, cooling off after yet another uneventful day, at the temple square. Looking at people hustle about left and right during a festive time. The outskirts of the temple or church are the busiest at such a time and playing mute spectator to this much activity brings me an inexplicable calm. Thoughts run amok, and soon I find myself thinking about what could have been if things went according to 'plan.'
Plan A would have made me a Lieutenant in the Indian Navy by now... Didn't happen. Plan B would have had me studying in a foreign land amongst people alien to me. Also didn't happen, but as I still nurture my 'Berlin Dreams' making a couple of jokes at my expense, with a friend studying there, I notice the street vendors packing up for the day. The sweetcorn vendor is vociferously banging his cart to pull in the last few customers of the day, and the toy seller has gone down 30 Rupees from his asking price from just a few hours earlier.
In the din, a shrill searing voice cuts out, "Bhaiyyaaa..."
I break free from my trance and roll my eyes towards that voice. It's so funny how we, well-off educated-unemployed graduates talk about dreams, passion and better lives, and then comes a 10-year-old kid, thousands of miles away from his home in North India, selling balloons throughout the day only to realise his dream of munching on a serving of Churmuri or a cup of steamed corn by nightfall...
He should be in school, I think. Like anyone of my upbringing or similar unaware of the troubles of this murky world would... I see him finish up his snack and pass on the unsold balloons to a younger kid while he walks up to a toy seller and offers to help him pack for a few rupees. The already tired toy seller agrees, and the kid begins to pack all toys into the gunny bag diligently.
I drift off into thoughts once again. I think of the clothes I'm wearing — my shirt, trousers, my sandals even. Everything was bought with someone else's money. Heck, even the cup of corn I bought a while ago, was bought with the money I 'borrowed' from my father before leaving. We both know I'm not going to pay it back. But here's a boy, with virtually everything he's wearing, hand-me-downs, sure, but asked for and begotten as a fruit of his own efforts, the money jingling in his untidy pocket earned by his own hard work and the satisfaction brought on by munching on the corn earned after a days toil and then keeping the sense of mind to notice an opportunity to earn a few more rupees and offering to work for another chap. It appals me. Really.
While I sit here, groaning at the fact that the chat masala put in my corn is of substandard quality, he's happy that he got corn for him and his little friends out of his own money. He's been in this world for less than half the time I have, but seen more of the world than I ever could at even this age!
We talk about education. He is 10. He should be in school. Probably. But where? All Government schools teach in Kannada, a language as alien to him as German is to me. He's probably the son of a daily wage labourer who has travelled half the country in search of work. And all he's seen his family do is work. Schooling is not something that he thinks of at all. Even if he goes to school, he's likely not to understand a thing. And he's probably better off working... Opportunity cost, I learnt in my economics class. Here I see it, bright and clear.
I wonder if he has no other dream. We all wonder what the stereotypically 'successful' folks dream about. Interviewers ask them this question all the time... But what do those who we don't consider worth emulating, dream about? Are their dreams worth any less? Is being a balloon seller, and later when he is older, a daily wage worker his only dream? It takes me back to a conversation I had with a kid who cleaned tables at my college mess. "What do you want to do when you grow up," I'd asked him trying to make conversation. "What's your dream?"
"I want to have my own restaurant, and be able to employ many people," came the reply.
I snap back and try to look for him. There he is, in conversation with an older boy. His handler, asking for the money. This kid is sitting on a stone bench and replying with the chutzpah of a CEO. He's on top of the world, and this stupid handler isn't going to pull him down. A couple of threats are thrown around. Then some agreement is reached. The older boy takes back the remaining balloons and heads off.
A few are kept for the younger kids to play with. Now with virtually no one around, the little kids throng onto the street and start playing. They probably had nothing to eat for dinner. Still, their little bellies are full because, for this one moment, after all the chaos of the day, persevering through alien customers, overbearing stall owners, badmouthing handlers and many hours in the searing heat, their dreams have come true.
Cover Image Illustrative. Clicked during Tarang 2020 at Manipal University Grounds.
In the din, a shrill searing voice cuts out, "Bhaiyyaaa..."
I break free from my trance and roll my eyes towards that voice. It's so funny how we, well-off educated-unemployed graduates talk about dreams, passion and better lives, and then comes a 10-year-old kid, thousands of miles away from his home in North India, selling balloons throughout the day only to realise his dream of munching on a serving of Churmuri or a cup of steamed corn by nightfall...
He should be in school, I think. Like anyone of my upbringing or similar unaware of the troubles of this murky world would... I see him finish up his snack and pass on the unsold balloons to a younger kid while he walks up to a toy seller and offers to help him pack for a few rupees. The already tired toy seller agrees, and the kid begins to pack all toys into the gunny bag diligently.
I drift off into thoughts once again. I think of the clothes I'm wearing — my shirt, trousers, my sandals even. Everything was bought with someone else's money. Heck, even the cup of corn I bought a while ago, was bought with the money I 'borrowed' from my father before leaving. We both know I'm not going to pay it back. But here's a boy, with virtually everything he's wearing, hand-me-downs, sure, but asked for and begotten as a fruit of his own efforts, the money jingling in his untidy pocket earned by his own hard work and the satisfaction brought on by munching on the corn earned after a days toil and then keeping the sense of mind to notice an opportunity to earn a few more rupees and offering to work for another chap. It appals me. Really.
While I sit here, groaning at the fact that the chat masala put in my corn is of substandard quality, he's happy that he got corn for him and his little friends out of his own money. He's been in this world for less than half the time I have, but seen more of the world than I ever could at even this age!
We talk about education. He is 10. He should be in school. Probably. But where? All Government schools teach in Kannada, a language as alien to him as German is to me. He's probably the son of a daily wage labourer who has travelled half the country in search of work. And all he's seen his family do is work. Schooling is not something that he thinks of at all. Even if he goes to school, he's likely not to understand a thing. And he's probably better off working... Opportunity cost, I learnt in my economics class. Here I see it, bright and clear.
I wonder if he has no other dream. We all wonder what the stereotypically 'successful' folks dream about. Interviewers ask them this question all the time... But what do those who we don't consider worth emulating, dream about? Are their dreams worth any less? Is being a balloon seller, and later when he is older, a daily wage worker his only dream? It takes me back to a conversation I had with a kid who cleaned tables at my college mess. "What do you want to do when you grow up," I'd asked him trying to make conversation. "What's your dream?"
"I want to have my own restaurant, and be able to employ many people," came the reply.
I snap back and try to look for him. There he is, in conversation with an older boy. His handler, asking for the money. This kid is sitting on a stone bench and replying with the chutzpah of a CEO. He's on top of the world, and this stupid handler isn't going to pull him down. A couple of threats are thrown around. Then some agreement is reached. The older boy takes back the remaining balloons and heads off.
A few are kept for the younger kids to play with. Now with virtually no one around, the little kids throng onto the street and start playing. They probably had nothing to eat for dinner. Still, their little bellies are full because, for this one moment, after all the chaos of the day, persevering through alien customers, overbearing stall owners, badmouthing handlers and many hours in the searing heat, their dreams have come true.
Cover Image Illustrative. Clicked during Tarang 2020 at Manipal University Grounds.