Out of the mouths of babes
The humans that see most clearly are the babies. They see through their large, bright, clear, unclouded eyes before the world confuses them and shuts them up and basically "gaslights" them.
Of all the things Rashmi said when she was little, the one that pleased me the most was something she came up with when she was not more than three or four. We were in our driveway, in the car, about to go somewhere. Suddenly from the car seat in the back, a meditative voice popped up, "মা, যারা আমাদের দুষ্টু লোক, আমরা তাদের দুষ্টু লোক।" ("Ma, those who are our bad guys...we are their bad guys.") She used to still talk in Bangla then. In today's world of the good "us" versus the evil "them", not too many people will appreciate the equivalence drawn between the two.
Another thing Rashmi said when she was five was of less universal import, in fact it was very specifically about me. "আমি চাই তোমার অনেক বই হবে, অনেক চুল হবে, অনেক টাকা হবে।" "I wish for you lots of books, and lots of hair and lots of money." That, I must say, was a fairly perceptive summary of what I wanted and what I lacked!
Bhombol, our neighbour's son, was ten years old when I saw him standing in an upstairs veranda one day, looking out over the small playground with swing, slide and merry-go-round right in front of the building. A smaller and much skinnier kid in a tattered dress and matted hair hesitantly walked up to the swing and sat on it. She might have been a child of one of the maids working in these flats, she was certainly not a resident of this middle-class neighborhood. "Hey!", said Bhombol loudly, startling the girl, "why are you sitting on our swings. These are not for you. Get off!" The ragged kid looked frightened and immediately jumped off the swing. Bhombol hadn't expected such prompt compliance. Something about the girl's fear touched his not-yet-hardened heart. His face softened and his voice was very gentle when he said next, "তোর খু..ব দুলতে ইচ্ছে করছে?" ("Do you really really feel like swinging?")
People say that artists and poets express what is inexpressible in the human heart. What about that which is completely expressible but not allowed to be expressed? The storm of emotions that rages in every human breast but is firmly subdued by societal strictures? Surely we can thank little kids, as much as any poet, for sometimes breaking those barriers and expressing the distress we all feel when hopes, however small, are dashed; the kind that we painfully swallow with false smiles plastered on our faces. It's such a delicious, vicarious release when a kid melts down and let's loose with the full force of her feelings.
When we lived in Kolar, there were several Bengali families in KGF (Kolar gold fields) which was about 21 miles away. We would occasionally visit each other and the visiting family would often be invited to stay over. The children would look imploringly at their parents and hold their breath while the parents hemmed and hawed and claimed that they really had to get back home. Once we were visiting little Dola's family and she was trying very hard to convince us to stay over. "We have big beds and lots of pillows". she said. "We have big beds too." "My mom will cook a nice dinner for you." "We have food cooked at home." "I will share all my toys with you." "That is very sweet of you Dola, maybe next time." When no amount of inducements would convince us to stay, the poor kid fell apart. Big, fat tears coursed down her cheeks as she clenched her fists, stamped her foot and yelled, "Then why coming?! Stupid!"
Why indeed dear child, why indeed! Why do all lovely things come just for a moment, only to raise our spirits, tie our hearts in tangles and then break them apart? I know all the logical reasons, no light without darkness etc. The whole scheme is, however, unquestionably, darnedly stupid.
Of all the things Rashmi said when she was little, the one that pleased me the most was something she came up with when she was not more than three or four. We were in our driveway, in the car, about to go somewhere. Suddenly from the car seat in the back, a meditative voice popped up, "মা, যারা আমাদের দুষ্টু লোক, আমরা তাদের দুষ্টু লোক।" ("Ma, those who are our bad guys...we are their bad guys.") She used to still talk in Bangla then. In today's world of the good "us" versus the evil "them", not too many people will appreciate the equivalence drawn between the two.
Another thing Rashmi said when she was five was of less universal import, in fact it was very specifically about me. "আমি চাই তোমার অনেক বই হবে, অনেক চুল হবে, অনেক টাকা হবে।" "I wish for you lots of books, and lots of hair and lots of money." That, I must say, was a fairly perceptive summary of what I wanted and what I lacked!
Bhombol, our neighbour's son, was ten years old when I saw him standing in an upstairs veranda one day, looking out over the small playground with swing, slide and merry-go-round right in front of the building. A smaller and much skinnier kid in a tattered dress and matted hair hesitantly walked up to the swing and sat on it. She might have been a child of one of the maids working in these flats, she was certainly not a resident of this middle-class neighborhood. "Hey!", said Bhombol loudly, startling the girl, "why are you sitting on our swings. These are not for you. Get off!" The ragged kid looked frightened and immediately jumped off the swing. Bhombol hadn't expected such prompt compliance. Something about the girl's fear touched his not-yet-hardened heart. His face softened and his voice was very gentle when he said next, "তোর খু..ব দুলতে ইচ্ছে করছে?" ("Do you really really feel like swinging?")
People say that artists and poets express what is inexpressible in the human heart. What about that which is completely expressible but not allowed to be expressed? The storm of emotions that rages in every human breast but is firmly subdued by societal strictures? Surely we can thank little kids, as much as any poet, for sometimes breaking those barriers and expressing the distress we all feel when hopes, however small, are dashed; the kind that we painfully swallow with false smiles plastered on our faces. It's such a delicious, vicarious release when a kid melts down and let's loose with the full force of her feelings.
When we lived in Kolar, there were several Bengali families in KGF (Kolar gold fields) which was about 21 miles away. We would occasionally visit each other and the visiting family would often be invited to stay over. The children would look imploringly at their parents and hold their breath while the parents hemmed and hawed and claimed that they really had to get back home. Once we were visiting little Dola's family and she was trying very hard to convince us to stay over. "We have big beds and lots of pillows". she said. "We have big beds too." "My mom will cook a nice dinner for you." "We have food cooked at home." "I will share all my toys with you." "That is very sweet of you Dola, maybe next time." When no amount of inducements would convince us to stay, the poor kid fell apart. Big, fat tears coursed down her cheeks as she clenched her fists, stamped her foot and yelled, "Then why coming?! Stupid!"
Why indeed dear child, why indeed! Why do all lovely things come just for a moment, only to raise our spirits, tie our hearts in tangles and then break them apart? I know all the logical reasons, no light without darkness etc. The whole scheme is, however, unquestionably, darnedly stupid.
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