I met
Guddu, a six-year-old village boy in school uniform, struggling up
hill with his heavy school bag in a dense coniferous forest
at Chakrata, Uttaranchal. He was alone singing a
lilting tune all to himself when our paths met. It was
early morning, rather cold, and the sun had just risen from beyond
the mountains covered with tall pines, some hanging a green
cone or two. Nearby there was an unnamed waterfall rushing down
forever to meet a rivulet far below.
For a little boy, Guddu proved rather reticent. Initially, he was
unwilling even to divulge his name. I told him I loved his pine
trees, his mountains and his waterfall roaring in the distance, but he
simply would not let down his guard. We got into
a conversation only when I asked him if he could tell me
where I could find toffees among the mountains. He told me there
was a small grocery shop after the next turn, and the man
sold toffees of various colours. I accompanied
Guddu to the shop, bought a handful, and offered him some
to share among friends in school. The little boy's face lighted
up, but then he paused, and finally turned down my offer. I almost
pleaded with him to take at least one, but he refused saying he
could have toffees only when he got good marks in school.
Not too keen to wear my disappointment on my sleeve, I changed
tack asking Guddu if he had any brothers or sisters.
At this, he smiled his innocent smile, revealing a few
missing teeth. Yes, he had a small sister who was yet to walk or
talk but loved him a lot nonetheless. Every day, when Guddu left
home for school she bid taa-taa from their mother's lap. On his
way, Guddu would pick flowers, wild berries, butterfly's
wings, bird feathers, and anything interesting, and
take them to his sister. But she would put
everything in her mouth, and Guddu would get scolded for that. "She
is very small," Guddu explained to me in his
sister's defence, adding, "when she grows up like me, she'll not do
that any more."
We parted ways at the grocer's shop, Guddu going
up to his school and I returning to my hotel on
the slopes for breakfast. But before parting company we agreed to
meet the next day, same time, same venue. That night I went to
sleep quite excited at the thought that I would meet
my little friend early next morning. Just one
encounter and I had grown so fond of those little hands and little feet,
and a little conscience that could hold out against a large handful of
colourful toffees.
Guddu arrived late for our rendezvous the next morning. He had tripped
over a stone chasing a butterfly and
bruised his left knee. But Guddu was a brave little boy. He had
tied up the wound with his handkerchief, sat on a rock and cried a
little, and then got up to proceed to school. I offered to take him to
my hotel, wash his wound with Dettol and reach him to school in the
car that I had hired for my brief vacation at
Chakrata. "In a car?" Guddu exclaimed, looking
all very pleased. But then, he thought for some time and said he would
rather walk. The wound was small he said, and he was strong enough to
trek to school even with his limp. "I must become a strong man,
my father has told me," Guddu explained, discarding
effortlessly the extraordinary opportunity for a car ride to school.
I walked up with Guddu beyond the grocery
shop that day. The school, I discovered, was a clearing in the forest
where the village schoolmaster had slung a tarpaulin, tying its four
corners to thick pine trunks. There was a small blackboard
standing in a corner, and besides that, nothing else to indicate
that I was visiting a school. I could feel Guddu
was none too comfortable with my accompanying
him and wanted to be with his little friends (the master was
yet to arrive). I patted him on the back and turned to leave. Then
I stopped and told him I would not see him in the afternoon since
I would be travelling back to Dehra Dun and thereafter
to Delhi, where I had to work for a living. May be our paths would
cross again, some time, some day.
I think Guddu's face turned a little sad. He thought for a
while and then fished out a green-and-black tail
feather of some unknown bird from his pocket and offered
it to me. He had collected the feather on his way for his little
sister. I took it and asked him if he would now
accept the toffees I had bought for him the day before. This time Guddu
agreed to take one, saying he would have it when his masterji wrote
"good" in his copy.
Back in Delhi, Guddu keeps coming back to me,
with his little hands and little feet, his missing teeth,
and his thick black hair oiled and combed down carefully on either side
of a thin parting. In fact, he always pops up before the
mind's eye whenever I'm close to coveting something that I can do
without.
(The
author is Senior Editor, ICRA Limited, New Delhi, India)
A¡L¡nc£u¡
1m¡ ¯hn¡M, 1410
|