Writing Resources from Fifteen Minutes of Fiction

Emerald, the colour of trust

“Bhaiyya-Didi aa gaye!!” they would scream on top of their voices as they rushed towards us with the cheery smile that was unique to the unadulterated innocence of childhood. They would hug us, rather, cling to our legs as most of them could barely reach our knees. Getting off our cycles, we would walk towards the cluster of ramshackle mud houses amid which stood our “school”, if you could call it so. On the way, we would be made to listen to all the consequential issues that plagued the world of a nursery/primary school kid such as one’s ben-10 box being stolen, another being hit by a ‘lubber’ (rubber) in the eye, or a cry of “bhaiyya usne mujhe maara!” “Nahin didi usne shuru kiya!” accompanied by crocodile tears. This would be followed by “Didi! Hum aapke saath padhenge aaj”, making it feel like it had all been worth it, be it the 20-minute long bumpy cycle ride through the dusty roads of Pilani or even the merciless Rajasthan summer with the afternoon sun beating down upon us.
Getting into one of the premier engineering institutions in India, with what feels like a fortunate stroke of serendipity I was unaware of the fact that there were a few other things I would learn here apart from (or maybe instead of) engineering. Amongst all things, this was the place where I would know the meaning of vicarious pleasure, where I would learn to stand on the other side of the classroom facing a class rather than phasing out in class (something I had been doing all these years) and most of all, where I would get to go to primary school, yet again. The first week of college was my first time away from home. Over 2000 km away. Needless to say, I was homesick and was trying really hard to keep myself from boarding the next flight to Chennai. This required that I keep myself constantly engaged and it was with this line of thought that I decided to join Nirmaan, an NGO run by the students of Pilani. I joined an education project – “Shiksha ki ore”. An audacious initiative, the project, started by one of our seniors a couple of years ago had managed to rescue and admit around 40 child labourers in private schools and continues to do so. The children belonged to an economically backward community that had until then produced generation after generation of illiterate, daily wage labourers. We would go to the locality every day and tutor the kids lest they should feel unable to cope with the syllabus, having been admitted midway. Quite the paradox, since we were the ones who ended up learning and experiencing, much more than we could ever account for. My first visit to the locality, was among several other incidents that vouch for the above statement.
On our first visit, we were asked to interact with the community .In an attempt to hold a genial conversation with the women and find common ground, I embarked upon a frivolous yet cheery discussion that involved bangles, saris and the sort. During the conversation, one of the women asked me why I wasn’t wearing any bangles if I liked them so much. I replied that they were all at home and home was very far away. Immediately, she grabbed me by my wrist and took me inside her house. The mud house, which sheltered her family of six was roughly the size of a large closet and was empty except for a chulha and a dilapidated old trunk. Evidently, theoretical knowledge of their economic conditions had not prepared me to face stark reality for I was shocked, noticing the barrenness of the place. She smiled at me as I made futile attempts to hide the dismay that was engulfing me from within and was betrayed by my visage. Opening the trunk, she brought out a dusty wooden box. As she opened it, I couldn’t help but notice the sparkle and excitement in her eyes and was aware that I was then privy to her most treasured possessions. There were just about a dozen glass bangles of different hues, in the box. As the glass bangles caught the sunlight and reflected an exquisitely woven interplay of colours, she narrated with exhilaration, stories of how she had come to acquire each piece of her personal treasure cove that was the rustic wooden box. Some, she said with a wistful smile, had been gifted by her parents on the day of her nuptials. A few others her husband had bought from the local fair for her, she added, a colour rising to her cheeks.
Taking them out one by one, she noticed an emerald coloured pair that lay at the bottom of the box, still wrapped in plastic owing to its newness and exclaimed “ye lo! Aapka hara rang bhi mil gaya!” referring to the green kurta that I was wearing. She unwrapped them and before I could begin to protest, slipped them both on my wrist and said, “Humare bacchon ko bhi aapke jaisa padha do, bas”. I was at an utter loss for vocabulary.
Maybe they were just a pair of glass bangles. Maybe I would never wear them again. Maybe it wasn’t so much of a big deal. Maybe.
But I knew what it was. It was a mark of the trust that they placed on us to secure their children’s future. It was proof enough of the large hearts residing in those small dwellings. It was much more than just a pair of accessories purchased at the local fair. The emerald-hued pieces of glass that adorned my wrist that day, were symbols of promise, hope and most of all, trust.

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