Dad’s chiding & a friendly ‘ghost’

Sartaj Chaudhary

I WAS at my village school. It was a custom to host a farewell party to the outgoing class in March, with a group photograph with a primitive camera. Collection in cash or kind, managing the entire show was for the juniors. I was one. Our teacher picked me and a fellow student, Jassi, and explained how one rupee each in cash or kind was to be collected. 

Students could contribute jaggery  and flour of similar value instead. These items were to be deposited at my house. Within a day or two, the collection stood impressive in my room. One evening, Jassi came to see me. Mischief on his face, he  casually suggested that he could perhaps sell a small portion of the items at the local shop and share the proceeds with me. I shouldn’t have, but I was tempted! He did exactly what he had suggested and in our minds, all was well with the world.

Late in the evening, my elder sister came with my quota of daily milk. She gave a curious look at the marginally ‘disturbed’ mounds of jaggery and flour. The next day passed as usual. In the evening, all hell broke loose. My father wanted to have a word with me! While questioning any wrongdoing, he was in the habit of keeping a cane by his side. Mortally frightened, I broke down. He looked sad. We had committed two wrongs, not one, he said. Thieving and selling a portion of the items was one. The more serious was the abuse of trust the school had reposed in us. ‘Aapne vohi maan bhi beych diya!’ Agony breathed through his words. The punishment was swift and clear. I was to go straight to Jassi’s house and inform his parents about what we had done. Bring back the share — half a rupee — he had pocketed. Now! 

His house was about a mile from mine. With heavy steps, I set off, feeling remorseful. Everybody I came across, I felt, looked differently at me. Jassi’s mum greeted me with affection and treated me to cold milk and homemade pinnis. Amused at my narrative, she exclaimed, ‘Boys will be boys!’ pushing the money in my palm. Feeling better, I took my leave. The fear of walking alone in the darkness gripped me. I had to cross the statue of a sacrificial burning widow, popularly known as Sati. A shapely statue made of bricks! As I was braving myself to cross the dreadful landmark, I saw a shadowy figure coming from the other side. ‘Karam!’ it shouted. The ‘ghost’ knew my name too! I ran with all the speed a 12-year-old could gather. Within seconds, I was steadying myself amidst flickering lights in my village streets. Just as I entered, my mother asked, ‘Did you meet Udhav on the way? We sent him to look for you.’ I shook my head. Udhav would have only seen my dust! 

Years have passed. Many times I have visited my village, and the school. One of the greatest pleasures of life is to be at the place of one’s origin. At school, my father’s words ‘Aapne vohi maan bhi beych diya’ ring in my ears. 

With sadness my heart fills.