Love Lasts Forever (10 page)

He kissed me and
Shikha on our forehead and then they were gone. Shikha hugged me tight and tears trickled down her eyes. Suddenly I was the only one she had, at least for the next few days. I wiped my tears first and then Shikha’s. Slowly we made our way back in the empty house. We hoped they returned soon.

They never returned. Two weeks later we got the news that their bus met with an accident killing all the passengers and they never even reached Bombay. The owner of our house threw us out as we didn’t have any money to pay rent.

With a heavy heart and tears in our eyes we stood alone and dejected on the road, the thought killing us that
we had nowhere to go in this big, insolent world.

14.  Captain’s story - 2

June 1970
, Nagpur

It had been more than a month we’d been living on the footpath, without shelter and without much of food. Every morning I would trudge helplessly in the city in the hope of finding some work which would get me money to buy some food. Sometimes I got work - selling newspapers, cleaning garbage on roads, cleaning toilets – and sometimes I didn’t. When I did, I would excitedly scarper down the street or wherever I was working at the end of the day toward Shikha, feed her with whatever little I could but made sure got her the dessert – her ice cream. Her face would brighten up with its sight, and for once, I could make her smile. That was enough to keep me motivated and to run for work the next day.

             
During those days quite often we cried, commemorating our happier moments. Life obviously had been unfair to us. We lost our mother at a very early stage in our life and just when we were finally settled and content, God took our fathers too. Daily we’d wipe each other’s tears and together shared the piercing thought of our loneliness.

             
The dark and lonely footpath had become our home. We would lie cuddled together under the dark sky, staring into its expanse in fear, in agony, and in hope that someday our lives would be better. Sometimes we got sleep and other times it was a long and patient wait for the sun to cast its first rays of sunshine. If at all we did get sleep, we hated waking up to the realization what our lives had become.

Then one day while strolling past the roads
dejectedly in search of some work, I heard a loud clatter of children toward my right. I walked in the direction of the noise and observed a pale red coloured dilapidated building in the middle of a small playground where well over a hundred children were playing. I looked above at the board on the rusty metallic gate. It read: ‘Bal Vidya Anathalaya’. My eyes widened in delight and it was my first happiest moment in a long time.

That was to become our home for the next decade.

I sprinted back toward Shikha, packed whatever little belongings we had and, entered the orphanage. The children were still playing and some of them glanced at us gleefully. We were led in the small office by the gardener who saw us trudging aimlessly around the campus.

The office was on the ground floor of the building. It looked nothing like an office save the files clustered and dust-ridden on the shelves.
The woman in the office appeared to be in her fifties. She was short and plump and had an air of gaiety around her.
Children here call me Alka Mam,
she said in a dimpled smile after asking our names. In my ten years of stay at the orphanage rarely did that smile desert her exuberant face. Later, I would realize she lost both her sons, and to fill the gaping hole in her heart, she surrounded herself with kids.

She filled out a few forms for us
, asked us a few questions, and then cried with us hearing about our fathers. She encouraged us by telling similar stories about the other children in the orphanage. For once it felt good to know that there were children like us in the world who have felt similar pain and misery. She welcomed us to the orphanage and then asked Mohandas – the gardener - to show us around the little campus.

Mohandas was an agile man somewhere in his early sixties. However he had the memory of a fish. Twice we had to remind him who we were and why were we here.
At his delirium, Shikha couldn’t control her fit of giggles. It felt good to see her laughing; that smile had eluded her face for over a month.

He showed us
two big rooms that were adjacent to each other: separate accommodation for boys and girls. Each room had over fifty triple bunk beds. They were not very clean, but after living on the streets for a month, we weren’t too fastidious ourselves. There was a small cleaning area, a dining hall, and four small class rooms. In summary, it was the perfect home. God had been kind to us. My faith in him reaffirmed that day.

He told us there were ei
ghty five children here in all - orphans like us, who had seen the worst life had to offer very early in their lives. They lived, played, and studied here. This was their home and it was good to see an air of affability around the campus.

We had a ve
ry methodical schedule in the orphanage. At sharp six an alarm rang beckoning us for the morning prayers, seven was our breakfast time, and then it was study time from eight until one. That was my favourite time of the day. Of course, I had never forgotten the promise I’d made to Baba.

After studies, we had our second prayer
at one followed by lunch. The rest of the afternoon and evening was spent in the playground indulging in physical activities. We had dinner at seven followed by the last prayer of the day. At sharp eight another alarm rang compelling us to go to bed. And then, lights of the campus would go down.

During our initi
al days Shikha and I spent most of our time together. We had our meals together, sat next to each other in the class, and played with each other in the evenings. But as the days progressed, we became friends with almost everyone in the orphanage. We were like a huge family living, playing and celebrating life together. Soon the haunting memories of our fathers and loneliness deserted us and, yet again, we were gifted a new life.

We had about four permanent teachers and few others on voluntary ba
sis. Together they taught us English language, math, science, history, general knowledge and physical education.

There were many memorable incidents of those days that are embedded deep i
n my mind. On one such occasion our English teacher had asked us what would we want to be as grown-ups? One by one we began replying. There were various replies - engineers, lawyers, teachers, sport persons, etcetera. When my turn came I said I wanted to become a very rich man and open a lot of orphanages. All the children including the teacher burst out into laughter. But the story isn’t done; Shikha had an even better answer. When her turn came she stood up in her seat nervously, and looking at me, answered, ‘I want to be Shekhar
bhaiya’s
wife.’

I can still remember vividly the
teacher falling off from her seat before breaking in a convulsion of laughter.

Evenings were the best time of the day
. We played many games together. But there was one game I grew increasingly fond of over the months – hide and seek.

We’d
play it together with a few other children. Quite often Shikha would find herself ‘out’. It was never by chance really, because when she would hide, she could never control herself from giggling when the seeker would approach her, manifesting her presence. During her turn to find others, she’d walk behind a tree and count from one to hundred loudly. It would take her ages to complete it making us restless in our hidden position. And when finally she would be ready for the hunt looking for us, she never managed getting herself out of it because she was so slow to respond. I’d furtively sneak behind her, reaching out for her with my arms, and then gently tap her from behind. She’d turn around cautiously making me scream in exhilaration, ‘
Dhappa
’, scaring her to the bones. I loved that look on her face. All others would emerge out clapping and giggling and then she’d proceed, hopping her way to the back of the tree, counting again. I think she enjoyed that herself.

When not indulging in sports,
we’d walk alone around the campus holding our hands and conversed about how our day transpired. We’d always confide in each other, shared our stories, dreams and worries. Those days we had our own worries and concerns, by the way.

On on
e such instance, there was a niggling thought in Shikha’s mind. A boy named Rajiv would tease her by calling her a cat because she wore her dark hair high in two ponytails on either side. He’d wriggle his arms and body toward her shouting, ‘
billi, billi
…’ His other eight, nine year old friends would chime in and laugh contemptuously at her. Sobbing, she’d come to me narrating her harried tale. I promised her I’d do something about it. When they continued pulling her leg, I took it upon myself to teach them a lesson.

The following day w
e had a little fight in the mud and Rajiv ended up breaking two of my front teeth. I cried at the sight of blood and was immediately rendered first aid.

And that’s when they began
teasing me as well by calling me, ‘
bina daat ka budha!
’

Of course, w
e learned to ignore them then.

There were
some days in our orphanage we had a feast in our dining area. Some wealthy and noble people from the nearby area celebrated the birthdays of their children or their own anniversaries or such equally significant dates with us. The food would be on their account those days and our best food in months. Not that the food in our orphanage was bad or anything - I had deep respect for it, especially after struggling for it for over a month - but it had ceased to excite us. It was the same old rice and dal, with some dry vegetable, and desert on Sundays. We would rush through our meals to indulge in other interesting activities (like studying or playing hide and seek). Shikha would whine occasionally that there wasn’t any ice cream served here. So, to honour her demand, I requested Sheila aunty and Ramesh uncle – our regular visitors – to get us loads of ice cream in their next visits. They’d happily agreed to it and tousled my hair affectionately.

However,
I got a rebuke that day from our teacher who told me I should be taught manners. But I couldn’t care less. I had done that for Shikha, my sweet little Shikha, anything for her!

S
ince then whenever they’d arrive, Shikha would scamper her way to the entrance gate to have her share of ice cream. I wondered why she was so crazy about it. The thought of opening my own brand of ice cream someday for her often crossed my mind.

There was another wonderful thing I remember from those days.
After our last prayer of the day, Shikha would make sure to wish me ‘goodnight’ with a tight hug every night before going to bed. It had almost become customary and on days she’d forget it, she’d dart to my room, would wake me up from my sleep (howsoever deep that might be), and then give me that hug.

I still cherish that sweet little gesture.

And so life went on. Days became months, months became years
, and over time our fondness for each other proliferated. It wasn’t too long before I would discover the joy and magic of first love.

1
5.  Captain’s story - 3

July 1975
, Nagpur

I was all of fourteen when I first realized I was madly in love with Shikha. It wasn’t a revelation that surprised me, part of me had known this was coming, but the inundating force with which it hit me took me by surprise.

The first rain
s of the season had arrived and Shikha had grown increasingly fond of it over the years. She’d love dancing under the rain with her face tilted toward the dark gray sky, eyes at rest, and savoured the moment as little drops of rain slammed across her face. All her sadness and worries evaporated with the heat in the air and she’d prance all over the muddy ground with few of her other friends. I’d hide behind a tree secretly admiring her simplicity.

Shikha
had turned out to be a pretty girl - her comely features, high cheekbones, and full lips helping the cause. She had big, wide, communicating eyes, and long hair cascaded down her shoulders. It was then that the thought of spending the rest of my life with her first occurred to me.

Though one would wonder, such thoughts of love were premature at that age, but then love doesn’t have a manufacturing date. I
t doesn’t have an expiry date either. It just happens like that making you feel overwhelmed. It does not wait for people to grow, it doesn’t wait for the right time, it just happens.

And I’m glad it happened to me.

              Those days I could sense an appreciable amount of change in the way I looked at her, the way it felt when I took her hands in mine, or the way we hugged before bed time. It was as if the man in me was awakening. A few missing heart beats here and there, that lingering smell and touch of hers in my hands, the picture of her pretty face that adorned by mind were the sort of stuff I never felt before. Things felt different…
and wonderful
.