Chronicles of Ballu and Taqdir

 

Ballu is around 47 years in age but he is a proud grandfather for the last few years. That entitles him to leave an impressive heritage. The pangs of poverty make one petulant and self-serving. On the dirt-paths of survival, one becomes ever-perky and anxious. The frozen cluster of ‘need’ is unyielding in its grip. As a poor man liquor comes handy with its promise of unconditional surrender. He is no exception.

But childhood is all about ecstatic swings between dreams and reality. As a boy he loved horses. He galloped like a horse and made whining and neighing sounds of a horse even while we played monkey games. He was also far ahead of his times. At a time when any thought beyond cleaning oneself after ablutions with water seemed like shaking the foundations of the established religion, he cleaned himself Western style. Just that he had a green patch of grass to rub himself clean instead of the toilet paper.

This was a very nice little round patch of grass where we, saturated with childhood satisfaction, rolled in fun. We found it highly objectionable that he should use his ultra-modern style at that place. As a token of self-esteem, we plotted a scheme. We would fix acacia thorns, like booby traps, in the grass to wound the enemy. But luck was with him and we always missed the mark as his habit of continuous experimentation of seeking fresher grass for his rubbing fun saw him choosing the not-booby-trapped areas.

He came to know of the plot and knew that I was the ringleader. Naturally, he counter-plotted. He invited me to ride their old horse, saying it was the most docile creature on earth and hence would just tread at a snail’s pace, giving me the pleasure and fun of life. I enjoyed the slow ride, a kind of nice music with one note gracefully beckoning the next one with each step of the horse. Ballu then kicked the horse with full force from behind. The offended creature gave a sudden spurt and took to the capacity of its old legs. There was no bridle or saddle. I was holding just the cord of the neck-bell. As I perilously bounced on the back of the trotting animal, I slipped down to the neck and the human-garlanded horse went pretty fast. Thank God it felt thirsty and stopped by the pond and inclined its neck to drink water. I allowed myself to be dropped into the water like a little frog.

As we are talking of horses, mentioning another episode from those bucolic days won’t be out of place. Paltu Potmaker had a fine mare. Young Taqdir Singh had a penchant for horse riding. After grazing at the public lands around the village, the light-footed mare would return lumbering and tired instead of coming out fresh after grazing. It was an invasive trauma to the owner as he came to know about the adolescent boy’s fun rides on his mare.

Paltu was a startingly simple man, shy and self-effacing. But he felt offended in this matter. One day, Paltu was returning after relieving himself by the village pond. He carried his empty brass lota with him. Taqdir came full gallop raising dust on the majestic mare. In groove with the subtlest sense of time, Paltu gave the best shot of his life. Perfectly aimed. Paltu threw the brass utensil at the rider as he passed him on the path. The potmaker instantly proved that he had all the traits of a great marksman. He hit the rider on the forehead. Taqdir rolled over and fell in the sand on the path. The cut mark on his forehead continued to tell the fact that he was a once fine horse rider.