Today, my fourteen year old niece, who is studying in ninth grade; gives me a total glimpse inside the teenagers mind, how much we lacked it. Whenever one of us used to get scolded with heart piercing words by one of the nannies or the other housemothers, at times she as well, and when one of us used to cry, during that time she used to shout, “go hang yourself in chilly plant, if you have that kind of soft heart.”
Once, in her most fake furious tone she shouted “go and commit suicide on chili plant.” Me, now full grown up my height is less than 5”, then when I was in my early teen or may be preteen, I was almost as tall as a chilly plant. Therefore, I went to tomato Plant, which was lazily lying. There was a thread on my wrist, which a pundit put during janai purnima day and it is believed here in Hindu Nation, if we keep it until the laxmi Puja during Tihar and tie it on a tail of the cow it will take us to the heaven after we die.
I don't know about going to heaven but I thought of using it to suicide by hanging myself on that tomato plant. I told it to wake up, so I can hang myself on it. But the plat did not even bother to raise its head and look at me. It ignored me totally; refusing even to listen me, I can only guess, probably looking at my height it had ignored me.
You know when you are small; the whole world don't pay much attention to you and may be I am alive today because that tomato plant did not listen to me, when I asked it to wake up, so that I could hang myself on it. Otherwise who knows, I would have died by hanging on myself on a tomato plant.
As for being stupid and not knowing, where to go and buy brain on two pennies, she had offered to give is also good for us. As you never know, we would have ended up in very cheap bargain and may have satisfied with whatever brain that much money could have got us.
I did carry lots of grudge against this woman, who enjoyed waging her tongue for the filthiest and dirtiest abusive words for us through out our teenage period and smacked us on our back from all size of sticks. I was so angry with that housemother for so long, who hated us when I was preteen and teen. Who filled so much hatred in our young minds.
But now, I hate her no more, because; I can see Yamraj, who is so dark, looks so oily and greasy, has the bushiest mustache on his face. The mustache, that was unbeatable for ten continuous years on Rajasthani mustache competition. Of course, he is very tall about 6” 4’, definitely not the kind of height we Nepali have here in our country. He is heavy and potbellied too. Who is enjoying frying her in the big hot pan, where oil is boiling at 200 cc or more. She is tied on a rod, as a screwier, like they do for barbecuing a whole wildbore on the camp fire. Her every panic stricken high peach plea is a music to his ear, which he seem to be enjoying a lot with ear-to-ear grin. When he is all ear-to-ear grin, I am just wondering how his all that square shaped teeth can be seen. Should not that bushy mustache be able to hide it all ! With all those plea, I see hers hands and legs throwing up in the air for help, burned and charred , yet how come she still can cry for plea is some thing to wonder about but to Yamraj its not enough. With his occasional clearance of both ears with his forefingers, he seem to be asking more of those plea from her. Just to add more of those plea, he is constantly checking the meaty part of her body with the long big fork, as if trying to be sure, has she been well fried or not.
On his side, I see a small girl, who is on her preteen perhaps, who is thumping on her right feet only and clapping her hands joyfully, seeing this scene. She too want to check on her, with that long fork pocking on the raw most part of her the body on the big pan. As I see from a distance, Yamraj letting her do that, without hesitation. That girl’s face seem very familiar to me, I think I know her.
When Yamraj does his job pretty well and loves it so much, why should I carry any grudge against her or perhaps any one on earth ?
Hail Yamraj !
No comments:
Post a Comment