Do take today’s verdict seriously. Do not take the verdict personally. Its only against the perpetrators, not against your kind.
I heard someone recently remark, ‘God save Ayodhya.’ I believe he was saying this with secular intentions, and since the Masjid does not exist, he was merely talking about the piece of land, meaning ‘God also save Babri,’ or rather, ‘God save that piece of land that can make savages out of men.'
The question that begs to be asked is, which god save who from whom for what? Hindu god save Hindus from Muslims or vice versa? For all we know, the Christian god probably is the one to save all from all and we have been barking up the wrong tree.
In this setting of anxiety and hostility who is safe? A friend at breakfast today said “I’m wearing my rosary outside today.” Futile attempt at safeguarding one’s life. We are all victims when communal disharmony breaks out. The intention of the fanatic is to avenge and instill fear. One good Catholic dead means nothing to one angry fanatic. We are all enemies when communal disharmony breaks out.
We are all victims, if not directly. Is not our collective modern history being taken casualty when it records that curfew is imposed today because of something that happened in the 16th century? Is not our international repute taking a beating when we are attempting to host the CWG and yet are expecting mass murder? Are not our national values being hung when we are not democratic, not secular and not peaceful?
Thursday, 30 September 2010
Tuesday, 22 June 2010
Ladies Seat
There's a reservation of seats in BMTC buses, at least in the non AC types, which presume that men still have not received the education necessary for them to give up their seats and women still haven’t acquired the strength to be equal. The reservation is for women, and it has the prestigious location of being in the very front of the bus, starting from behind the driver and ending just short of the middle door.
This reservation is usually indicated by the presence of the word 'Ladies' (correctly spelt) in English and Kannada, or by the motif of a regular savithri, emblazoned on the steel above the seats, for those who for no fault of theirs did not have the privilege of learning to read.
The funny thing is, the number of seats reserved for women is far lesser than the non reserved seats, that are by right of way, occupied by the gentler folk in our society, the men. Funnier still, is that men are always sitting in these ladies-seats, even in the presence of standing women, who are usually clutching on for dear life to their various appendages, including hand bags, hair dos, groceries and children. Greedy little gents I say, which probably explains why they are often called 'pigs', accompanied by the expected presence of 'chauvinist'. The funniest thing for me, is that in our patriarchal society, men never consider women equal until it comes to bus-seats.
Strength and Equality Advocates send out the clarion call, for women to occupy the un-reserved seats. But this cannot happen. Even in the presence of their being an equal number of men and women in a certain bus at a given time, it means that if men have reached the un-reserved seat before a woman, they just sit there. Women are allowed to stand in the man’s very line of sight. If a man leaves at a certain stop, his place is replaced by another standing man. And women do not foray in to the un-reserved compartment such that they can slip into the seat of the departing man. They do so only in the designated front, because which woman wants to be rocking back and forth pressed up against men in a non AC bus?
If this is how our social system in BMTC buses is to work, then it would probably make sense for more seats to be reserved for women, because men can occupy them anyway, in the absence of women. Or there needs to be a section called “For Ladies and Gents”, because as much as we may pooh-pooh the idea of an unwritten rule, there certainly exists one if you don’t want your bottom pinched. While the male gaze still considers a man as another human being who paid for a ticket and wants a seat, a woman is looked at as just a woman and cannot occupy the un-reserved seats. So is the idea of a reservation of seats a regressive one in the progress of women in society? To the educated middle class gaze, it is. But to the practical Indian woman, who is still ogled at and treated badly, she pleas for protection and concession.
In today’s society of disparity, the one who is weak is asked for an un-reasonable amount of personal strength from the one who is strong, and in this demand, some will perish while others will compromise and definitely nobody will be equal.
Usually by the last stop, most people who were standing would have found seats. But if there is anybody who is still standing, it will be a woman. Even though she is in the front of the bus, plain for all to see, such that ignorance is not bliss for all the forward facing and backward thinking men, she receives no seat.
This phenomenon is seen in other areas of life as well. Little boys can accompany their mothers to the ladies's toilet until he can make susu on his own. Little girls cannot be caught dead in the gents' toilet. This could work brilliantly, if it was like the check-out counter at super markets, where those who have 3 or fewer items to bill can stand in the regular line but not vice versa.
Strength and Equality Advocates would like to tell you women today, to suck it up.
I am glad I know how to compromise today. I'm actually selfishly glad when I enter a bus and see men sitting in the seats reserved for women. Because I'm strong all right- "Ladies seat," I say with a no-nonsense scowl, to those pigs. And settle down with my breakfast and newspaper.
Sunday, 30 May 2010
Who Says-Smoking
Pop culture has elevated smoking to a status of romance. A cigarette holder placed 
between slender fingers, while the woman’s rouged mouth is blowing out smoke rings, shrouds her in smoke and mystery. Photographs that show Churchill heavily puffing on a cigar, coupled with his deep set scowl, lend him a power and a damn-care attitude that lets us know that while smoking may k
ill him, he certainly will die on his own terms. Guevara has been similarly photographed, smoking a cigar from home, while lost in deep thought. Why, even Cruella DeVille was dressed with a cigarette and did it not add to the terror in her character?
However moral codes, health diktats and just plain culture, have rubbished the activity as a hazard and a premise for unproductivity.
So what does it take to be a rebel? How is a rebel any different from a freedom fighter, a social worker or a terrorist? Don’t they all want change, and to do things differently. It is unfortunate that the connotation associated with the term rebel has come to be negative, and a ‘deviant’ is not viewed as individualistic or creative but as an anti-social nuisance.
There is a nation wide smoking ban in India, which was put in place in October 2008. There is also a ban on smoking being portrayed in movies and photographs, unless they were from a period before the ban was introduced. But tobacco is still grown in India, and more frequent than the much needed dustbins in this country, are little tin shops that sell cigarettes, Pan Parag and tea, to the 250 million tobacco users in the country. India is the third largest market for cigarettes in the world, and whether the ban is directed towards people already addicted to smoking cigarettes, or to protect second hand smokers, is anybody’s guess.
Of all the addictions that are considered devilish, I’m taking tobacco smoking on today, and debating it for myself, irrespective of the fact that I’ve already made up my mind about it.
I’m a non smoker but I have several smoker friends. Heck, nearly everybody I know smokes. I never lend them money to buy smokes but I do accompany them sometimes, on their sutta-breaks. This has allowed me to closely observe the social implications of smoking.
From my inferences, smoking gives smokers a social advantage. “Want a smoke?,” “What’s your brand?” and “Have you tried this brand?” are often used conversation starters.
I know students who smoke with their professors outside college and have seen teenagers smoking with adults in the balcony at parties. I once even asked a smoker friend to oblige a beggar, who wanted some of his cigarettes in Delhi (I’ll explain this in another post, another time).
Thus, the old and young, wise and foolish are suddenly equal when it comes to them being smokers. Their life’s Venn diagrams overlap, with no one side judging the others’ values and choices. “How long have you been smoking?,” “How many do you smoke in a day?,” “Have you tried quitting?” and “How come you didn’t succeed?” means that they have all had some common trials, successes and failures and a considerable amount of experience and insight to share, irrespective of their age and maturity. In the sense, this immediately inducts every smoker into a fraternity, and everybody wants to belong.
Contrary to a non-smokers usual dismissal of a smoker as someone who is weak willed, I contest that on the grounds of the active and conscious nature of the addiction. Unlike an alcoholic or a druggie, a smoker hasn’t given himself over to smoking. Smokers smoke on the go, and capably manage their lives with one hand working while the other wields a cigarette. It means that a smoker doesn’t languish in a dark bar, neither does he shack in abandoned houses injecting things into his blood. One wouldn’t see a smoker lying face down on the road, passed out under influence.
Instead every smoke and smoke break is planned for. Several of my smoker friends ration out their money carefully and budget for cigarettes. Thus a smoker doesn’t sit rooted and smoke all day, all at once, but does so at intervals. This gives credence to their self will, because a smoker always carries a pack of cigarettes in his pocket and can feel it every time he reaches for his keys or wallet, but doesn’t always give in.
And thus, a smoker does in fact have cravings and suffers withdrawals if he isn’t able to smoke but this ensures that he is always aware of his addiction. This in turn means that he controls his own addiction to a large extent.
Life is slightly slower for a smoker. Or at least it is well interspersed with pauses and breathing time- something all our lives could use- even if it means they breathe their own toxic exhalations. Sutta breaks give smokers time to reflect on their ongoing day, calm down, and re-strategize for the rest of it. The demand of their addiction, ensures their sanity and subsequent clarity, simply because they took a time out.
And as long as this remains uncontested, who says?
between slender fingers, while the woman’s rouged mouth is blowing out smoke rings, shrouds her in smoke and mystery. Photographs that show Churchill heavily puffing on a cigar, coupled with his deep set scowl, lend him a power and a damn-care attitude that lets us know that while smoking may k
ill him, he certainly will die on his own terms. Guevara has been similarly photographed, smoking a cigar from home, while lost in deep thought. Why, even Cruella DeVille was dressed with a cigarette and did it not add to the terror in her character?However moral codes, health diktats and just plain culture, have rubbished the activity as a hazard and a premise for unproductivity.
So what does it take to be a rebel? How is a rebel any different from a freedom fighter, a social worker or a terrorist? Don’t they all want change, and to do things differently. It is unfortunate that the connotation associated with the term rebel has come to be negative, and a ‘deviant’ is not viewed as individualistic or creative but as an anti-social nuisance.
There is a nation wide smoking ban in India, which was put in place in October 2008. There is also a ban on smoking being portrayed in movies and photographs, unless they were from a period before the ban was introduced. But tobacco is still grown in India, and more frequent than the much needed dustbins in this country, are little tin shops that sell cigarettes, Pan Parag and tea, to the 250 million tobacco users in the country. India is the third largest market for cigarettes in the world, and whether the ban is directed towards people already addicted to smoking cigarettes, or to protect second hand smokers, is anybody’s guess.
Of all the addictions that are considered devilish, I’m taking tobacco smoking on today, and debating it for myself, irrespective of the fact that I’ve already made up my mind about it.
I’m a non smoker but I have several smoker friends. Heck, nearly everybody I know smokes. I never lend them money to buy smokes but I do accompany them sometimes, on their sutta-breaks. This has allowed me to closely observe the social implications of smoking.
From my inferences, smoking gives smokers a social advantage. “Want a smoke?,” “What’s your brand?” and “Have you tried this brand?” are often used conversation starters.
I know students who smoke with their professors outside college and have seen teenagers smoking with adults in the balcony at parties. I once even asked a smoker friend to oblige a beggar, who wanted some of his cigarettes in Delhi (I’ll explain this in another post, another time).
Thus, the old and young, wise and foolish are suddenly equal when it comes to them being smokers. Their life’s Venn diagrams overlap, with no one side judging the others’ values and choices. “How long have you been smoking?,” “How many do you smoke in a day?,” “Have you tried quitting?” and “How come you didn’t succeed?” means that they have all had some common trials, successes and failures and a considerable amount of experience and insight to share, irrespective of their age and maturity. In the sense, this immediately inducts every smoker into a fraternity, and everybody wants to belong.
Contrary to a non-smokers usual dismissal of a smoker as someone who is weak willed, I contest that on the grounds of the active and conscious nature of the addiction. Unlike an alcoholic or a druggie, a smoker hasn’t given himself over to smoking. Smokers smoke on the go, and capably manage their lives with one hand working while the other wields a cigarette. It means that a smoker doesn’t languish in a dark bar, neither does he shack in abandoned houses injecting things into his blood. One wouldn’t see a smoker lying face down on the road, passed out under influence.
Instead every smoke and smoke break is planned for. Several of my smoker friends ration out their money carefully and budget for cigarettes. Thus a smoker doesn’t sit rooted and smoke all day, all at once, but does so at intervals. This gives credence to their self will, because a smoker always carries a pack of cigarettes in his pocket and can feel it every time he reaches for his keys or wallet, but doesn’t always give in.
And thus, a smoker does in fact have cravings and suffers withdrawals if he isn’t able to smoke but this ensures that he is always aware of his addiction. This in turn means that he controls his own addiction to a large extent.
Life is slightly slower for a smoker. Or at least it is well interspersed with pauses and breathing time- something all our lives could use- even if it means they breathe their own toxic exhalations. Sutta breaks give smokers time to reflect on their ongoing day, calm down, and re-strategize for the rest of it. The demand of their addiction, ensures their sanity and subsequent clarity, simply because they took a time out.
And as long as this remains uncontested, who says?
Who Says
Who says you can’t wear short skirts, can’t pierce the same side of your nose twice, can’t be a nine to fiver and be a loud mouthed biker at night at the same time. Who says you can’t go to church and sport a personal tattoo way down under. Who says you got to finish two degrees and then work. WHO SAYS THESE THINGS. And why not me?
The multiplicity of angles, and the multitude of options- whether it is at your neighbourhood restaurant that serves tandoor, Chinese and Udupi, or this drama of a life- has resulted in the lack of reason for us to take any particular side. This leaves things vacant and cluttered.
But only one thing is right and can be. Though there may be degrees of rightness, the one standing will have to be the one farthest away from the wrong, or even the center. Every other option is a compromise.
Every other option has to be debated out, because we can’t afford to make mistakes anymore. And even though some things are universally accepted to be right or wrong, for the benefit of those who err in their ways and seek to justify it, those who know the right should be able to hold up their end.
I plan on featuring posts titled ‘Who Says’ in which I may argue situations, even if I believe much the contrary of what I write. It will be done purely as an exercise, to annoy myself.
The multiplicity of angles, and the multitude of options- whether it is at your neighbourhood restaurant that serves tandoor, Chinese and Udupi, or this drama of a life- has resulted in the lack of reason for us to take any particular side. This leaves things vacant and cluttered.
But only one thing is right and can be. Though there may be degrees of rightness, the one standing will have to be the one farthest away from the wrong, or even the center. Every other option is a compromise.
Every other option has to be debated out, because we can’t afford to make mistakes anymore. And even though some things are universally accepted to be right or wrong, for the benefit of those who err in their ways and seek to justify it, those who know the right should be able to hold up their end.
I plan on featuring posts titled ‘Who Says’ in which I may argue situations, even if I believe much the contrary of what I write. It will be done purely as an exercise, to annoy myself.
Tuesday, 9 March 2010
First and Goodest
Written: 7th December, 2009
“India is among the countries with the lowest standards of English in the world according to a recent British Council Survey. Knowledge of English is a prerequisite and an imperative necessity for our progress!” he pompously declared.
Faithful Indians, see. They’re always on the lookout of things that can build our country up. And then they will hold these things sacred and ensure that they remain crystalline.
“I’m not surprised. With people like Shobha De speaking in that terrible mix of English and Hindi, and yet they are acclaimed as some of the best Indian writers at present, is it any wonder that we have that low a ranking on the survey?” he bemoaned.
Indians must be first in everything. Or best. Whichever has the more positive connotation. At least that’s what faithful Indians think. First on the list of countries with the lowest HDI. First on the list of most-polluting-nations. First on the list of countries with the most pedestrian accidents, highest incidents of influenza.
English is our redeemer though, at least this Indian thinks.
“And what is worse, is how we have taken the beautiful language (of progress!), and made the most disgusting literal translations of it. Like this ‘What is your good name?’ business! It’s a translation of the Hindi enquiry ‘aapka shubh naam kya hai’. I think that it is insulting to be asked that question. Does it mean that people have ‘bad names’? Or that within closed circles, they are perhaps known by names that are derogatory?”
Is this a generally respectful world view, emphasizing on reverence for foreign culture? Or an insecurity that comes with being coloured? Is he one of those ‘being-Indian-is-a-dead weight’ people or one of those individuals of heightened awareness, who is the face of Bran
d Globalization?
What seems to be escaping the notice of this Faithful Indian is that adding the descriptive to the noun and the embellishment to the question, is merely the Indian way of being respectful. Since when has respect been a cultural prerogative?
Besides, English is not our language. We understand perfectly what ‘Meggi nodells,’ ‘Mek Roni,’ ‘Strowbary Milkshake,’ ‘feshion,’ ‘Medicel shop’ and ‘Sound Ok Horn’ is, don’t we? And we’re not doing so bad on the progress front either.
Wh
o are we kidding?
“So is it all right to say ‘Good Morning?' What about 'Happy Birthday?'” I asked him.
Of course. Its polite and mannered. It’s the right way to go about things. It’s an ice breaker, and a positive note to start a relationship on. It is acceptable and expected.
“Are you implying then, that you may want to wish the other, a ‘bad morning’? Or that it even matters to the morning, noon or night, if you wish it well or not?!”
And to think, they call Indians superstitious!
“India is among the countries with the lowest standards of English in the world according to a recent British Council Survey. Knowledge of English is a prerequisite and an imperative necessity for our progress!” he pompously declared.
Faithful Indians, see. They’re always on the lookout of things that can build our country up. And then they will hold these things sacred and ensure that they remain crystalline.
“I’m not surprised. With people like Shobha De speaking in that terrible mix of English and Hindi, and yet they are acclaimed as some of the best Indian writers at present, is it any wonder that we have that low a ranking on the survey?” he bemoaned.
Indians must be first in everything. Or best. Whichever has the more positive connotation. At least that’s what faithful Indians think. First on the list of countries with the lowest HDI. First on the list of most-polluting-nations. First on the list of countries with the most pedestrian accidents, highest incidents of influenza.
English is our redeemer though, at least this Indian thinks.
“And what is worse, is how we have taken the beautiful language (of progress!), and made the most disgusting literal translations of it. Like this ‘What is your good name?’ business! It’s a translation of the Hindi enquiry ‘aapka shubh naam kya hai’. I think that it is insulting to be asked that question. Does it mean that people have ‘bad names’? Or that within closed circles, they are perhaps known by names that are derogatory?”
Is this a generally respectful world view, emphasizing on reverence for foreign culture? Or an insecurity that comes with being coloured? Is he one of those ‘being-Indian-is-a-dead weight’ people or one of those individuals of heightened awareness, who is the face of Bran
d Globalization?What seems to be escaping the notice of this Faithful Indian is that adding the descriptive to the noun and the embellishment to the question, is merely the Indian way of being respectful. Since when has respect been a cultural prerogative?
Besides, English is not our language. We understand perfectly what ‘Meggi nodells,’ ‘Mek Roni,’ ‘Strowbary Milkshake,’ ‘feshion,’ ‘Medicel shop’ and ‘Sound Ok Horn’ is, don’t we? And we’re not doing so bad on the progress front either.
Wh
o are we kidding?“So is it all right to say ‘Good Morning?' What about 'Happy Birthday?'” I asked him.
Of course. Its polite and mannered. It’s the right way to go about things. It’s an ice breaker, and a positive note to start a relationship on. It is acceptable and expected.
“Are you implying then, that you may want to wish the other, a ‘bad morning’? Or that it even matters to the morning, noon or night, if you wish it well or not?!”
And to think, they call Indians superstitious!
Thursday, 4 March 2010
Hot, Flat and Crowded
Hello Blue Blog:)
I think Ill be back next week :P
After the 9th I think.
Papa was a rolling stone.
Sunday, 20 September 2009
Acting The Saheb
“Twenty five buckets of water! You will bring twenty five buckets of water and clean it!” my father screeched.
**********
Sunday afternoons are always lazy and uneventful. If I’m not out and by myself, I’ll spend it in my room.
We have a small flat, on the ground floor. It’s in a relatively well-off neighbourhood. The bed in my room is horizontally placed against the wall containing the only window in the room. Right outside the window is a large bush, which is trimmed so that it fits the exact length of my window and ends just where the window begins.
I was in my room one Sunday afternoon, sitting on my bed. It’s my most favourite place to be, on days like this one. I heard an odd hissing sound, so I looked out and saw a strange man urinating in the bush outside. It seemed like he had purposely placed his three-wheeler goods vehicle close to the bush, because he stood wedged between the bush and the vehicle, doing his job in his make-shift toilet.
He didn’t know I could see him, from behind my Netlon.
I called my father, to come and see what was going on.
**********
My father, is not a hot tempered man. He can be so calm about things, that he can make you angry for it. He is always controlled. In many ways, he is even timid.
But that Sunday, something went off in him, and he began to shout like a mad man from inside my room. The trespasser was shocked and looked around alarmed, trying to find where this strange voice was addressing him from. He hurriedly pulled his zip and pants up, and hopped back into his vehicle, trying to appear innocent. I was watching all this, from inside my room. My father then stormed outside, and began to shout at this man again.
Apparently, the president of the apartment’s owner’s association had hired this vehicle, to pick up some furniture from her house.
The president of the owner’s association is a rich woman. She owns six dogs and three flats in our complex. She’s quite the bully and a force to be reckoned with.
By this time, a small group of maid servants, sweepers, security guards and drivers had gathered. I could see how hard they were trying to straighten their faces. Some turned away, and I knew they were laughing.
**********
The trespasser began to plead with his hands folded “Maaf kijye sir, maaf kijiye. Main patient hoon.” He then began to cough violently, his chest heaving in and out from the strain, hand placed over his heart. It didn’t appear to be a very real bout. He was obviously afraid of what the repercussions of his action may be. “Would they fine me?” Whether he was a heart patient or not, I will never know. However, he seemed to suffer from the illness of Elephantiasis, because even though he was a large man, one could see an abnormally large lower body, from his waist down.
That was when my father spotted a boy, of no more than twelve years in age, peeping out at the tamasha, from behind the vehicle. He was the helper, to the trespasser of the goods vehicle.
“Twenty five buckets of water! You will bring twenty five buckets of water and clean it!” my father screeched.
He did this first at the trespasser and then when he realized that the man didn’t look like he was going to oblige and his coughing increased dramatically, my father pointed at the boy, and screeched the same.
Acting the Saheb.
The boy reluctantly came out from his hiding place. One of the sweeper women shoved a bucket into his hands, stifling giggles all the while. Another woman helpfully pointed in the direction of a tap, that the gardener used to water plants. The boy began to walk in the direction of the tap. My father shouted again. “NOT THERE! That’s not for you to use. Go to the public toilet and fetch the water from there.”
Twenty five times the boy trudged up and down, from the toilet to the bush. By the time he got to the bush, there was hardly any water left in his bucket. It had left a trail all the way behind him, marking the path he took, for another man’s sin.
The offender sat in his vehicle all along. My dad stood outside with all the society-cleaners, supervising the young boy. The crowd began to dwindle. Only my father, the offender and the boy were left, my father still counting.
**********
Sunday afternoons are always lazy and uneventful. If I’m not out and by myself, I’ll spend it in my room.
We have a small flat, on the ground floor. It’s in a relatively well-off neighbourhood. The bed in my room is horizontally placed against the wall containing the only window in the room. Right outside the window is a large bush, which is trimmed so that it fits the exact length of my window and ends just where the window begins.
I was in my room one Sunday afternoon, sitting on my bed. It’s my most favourite place to be, on days like this one. I heard an odd hissing sound, so I looked out and saw a strange man urinating in the bush outside. It seemed like he had purposely placed his three-wheeler goods vehicle close to the bush, because he stood wedged between the bush and the vehicle, doing his job in his make-shift toilet.
He didn’t know I could see him, from behind my Netlon.
I called my father, to come and see what was going on.
**********
My father, is not a hot tempered man. He can be so calm about things, that he can make you angry for it. He is always controlled. In many ways, he is even timid.
But that Sunday, something went off in him, and he began to shout like a mad man from inside my room. The trespasser was shocked and looked around alarmed, trying to find where this strange voice was addressing him from. He hurriedly pulled his zip and pants up, and hopped back into his vehicle, trying to appear innocent. I was watching all this, from inside my room. My father then stormed outside, and began to shout at this man again.
Apparently, the president of the apartment’s owner’s association had hired this vehicle, to pick up some furniture from her house.
The president of the owner’s association is a rich woman. She owns six dogs and three flats in our complex. She’s quite the bully and a force to be reckoned with.
By this time, a small group of maid servants, sweepers, security guards and drivers had gathered. I could see how hard they were trying to straighten their faces. Some turned away, and I knew they were laughing.
**********
The trespasser began to plead with his hands folded “Maaf kijye sir, maaf kijiye. Main patient hoon.” He then began to cough violently, his chest heaving in and out from the strain, hand placed over his heart. It didn’t appear to be a very real bout. He was obviously afraid of what the repercussions of his action may be. “Would they fine me?” Whether he was a heart patient or not, I will never know. However, he seemed to suffer from the illness of Elephantiasis, because even though he was a large man, one could see an abnormally large lower body, from his waist down.
That was when my father spotted a boy, of no more than twelve years in age, peeping out at the tamasha, from behind the vehicle. He was the helper, to the trespasser of the goods vehicle.
“Twenty five buckets of water! You will bring twenty five buckets of water and clean it!” my father screeched.
He did this first at the trespasser and then when he realized that the man didn’t look like he was going to oblige and his coughing increased dramatically, my father pointed at the boy, and screeched the same.
Acting the Saheb.
The boy reluctantly came out from his hiding place. One of the sweeper women shoved a bucket into his hands, stifling giggles all the while. Another woman helpfully pointed in the direction of a tap, that the gardener used to water plants. The boy began to walk in the direction of the tap. My father shouted again. “NOT THERE! That’s not for you to use. Go to the public toilet and fetch the water from there.”
Twenty five times the boy trudged up and down, from the toilet to the bush. By the time he got to the bush, there was hardly any water left in his bucket. It had left a trail all the way behind him, marking the path he took, for another man’s sin.
The offender sat in his vehicle all along. My dad stood outside with all the society-cleaners, supervising the young boy. The crowd began to dwindle. Only my father, the offender and the boy were left, my father still counting.
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