FORGOTTEN SMILES IN THE LAND OF MINES
It was one of those sultry evenings a few days back in a remote tribal village in Andhra Pradesh Odisha Border. Already a few small children, almost forty of them, had assembled as they did everyday at the same evening hours inside the CRPF camp for their daily tuition class.
It was quite an exercise by CRPF men trying to get these children and their parents motivated to attend these classes inside a police camp and finally when we managed to start this program which we named as “Solidarity Education Program” aimed at improving the educational standard of poor tribal children in our area of responsibility, it was like a mission accomplished for us. Troops were as excited as myself with this project. And many of these small children were much satisfied that, at least by engaging themselves inside our camp, they were spared from dwelling upon their discomforts in their houses particularly from their drunken fathers who would beat them up almost regularly in a state of intoxication. Thus the CRPF camp acted as a temporary shelter for them to hang around till their drunken fathers get into deep slumber and their mothers finally ready with their supper. In a place where alcohol related crime and vandalism remains a significant concern to the civil administration, children are living here in the worst imaginable living condition.
“Today I’am going to give you a task”.
The soft wave of chatter floated through the room had suddenly vanished and it was with a veritable keenness that they turned towards me when I walked up to the class room to have a little chitchat with them.
I saw the same exhilaration on all the tiny faces around me.
“You have to write a small paragraph about your life. The best writer will get a reward”.
The sight upon which they opened their notebook and started scribbling on it made me smile in gratification.
I then went for my usual camp defence review and no sooner had I finished my job than someone walked in to inform me that the children are ready with their write ups.
Constable Ganesh, their Telugu ‘Police teacher’, was ready with a scruffy note book with two of its pages written in Telugu script by a small boy Hari.
A sudden melancholia started engulfing the class room as Ganesh, as per my instruction, progressed reading the script and translating it in Hindi. It grew by every word, by every sentence and when it was finally over, I felt very depressed.
Here is the translation of what he wrote in his note book ....
“My Life story”
My name is Hari. When I was a kid I lost both my parents. My father was an addicted alcoholic. He used to ask my poor mother her hard earned money to buy liquor for him almost every day. One day, unable to bear my father’s drunken behaviour she emptied a can of kerosene and set herself ablaze inside my house. My father could not bear the agony of my mother’s bizarre death and committed suicide the same day by hanging himself. Left with nobody to take care of us, me and my sister is living with my aunty since then. Though poor and impoverished she is taking care of us by giving us food and cloths. She is taking a good care of my little sister too. Notwithstanding her financial constraints, she is sending us to school and we are studying well. During festivals like Christmas, she gives us new clothes for which we are extremely happy. We are happy to have such a nice aunty. We come to this police station for our daily tuition class every day after school hours and we are extremely happy about the after school education we are getting from here. We get pen, pencils and books too from here. It was my mother’s profound desire to see my little sister as a doctor and me an engineer once we complete our studies. When we grow up, me and my sister................................”
Poor Hari ended his story abruptly there. Did he get his eyes welled up for that he could not complete it? Did he get emotionally overwhelmed? I don’t know.
I stood there for a while. I never knew about him. I stared blankly at the class room trying to find him among other children. There on the farthest corner of the class room, I found him sitting with his tiny sister. Unaware of what’s happening around, she was playing with some pebbles.
After my initial emotional fret was worn off, I took a hundred rupee note and handed over to him as promised. As soon as the sudden clapping and cheers that followed my few words of appreciation to him faded, I’ve asked him to come over to my room for a photograph.
Astir with the wonder and curiosity at his first sight of a camera, he stood there emotionless. After the photo session was over I patted him on his back and then embraced him for long. I made a desperate attempt to make him smile but failed. May be the harsh incidents that happened in his life seemed to have made him stronger and harder inside.
After a small silence that followed my words of consolation , he said something in a subtle voice in Telugu. Ganesh translated.
I still love my parents. I wanted to be with them. I don’t know why they did this to me. But still I love them. I miss them badly.
In the corner of his tiny eyes, I spotted small flecks of tears welling up in there. The loss of his parents would have definitely dampened the spirits of his early childhood, I thought.
By now it was completely dark outside and he ran back to his classroom, which was by then wore a deserted look as all the children left to their respective houses. His small sister was still playing out there with those pebbles.
Holding her hand with all the responsibility of an elder brother, he trudged serenely towards the gate, grated over the gravelled land and faded into the dark streets beyond. When the huge iron gate of my camp swung shut behind them with a sharp sound that pierced the serene semblance of this forest area, I again fell into deep thought. How they are going to fulfil their long gone parent’s desires and ambitions? Their dream...?
Only consolation now is the knowledge that their aunty, instead of pushing them into the world of daily labour in order to get a few extra bucks to run her otherwise impecunious family, is still educating them. Realised it would not be her amity’s lot to educate the children beyond a few years; I thought how the departed souls would cheer for what they had dreamed about their kids. How long will she be able to bear the costs of their higher education and other living expenses? Answers to these questions, I know are as ambiguous as the lives of several other children in this naxal affected, impoverished, downtrodden hinterland of India, the tribal India.
I left that small village a few days back. But I’am still in touch with Hari. I wish I could do something for him and his sister. Few of my good friends residing there promised to assist me in whatever way they can do. May the almighty god give them the strength.
