Childhood Skirmishes

 

We are just the carriers of whatever already exists in the super-conscious folds of mother existence. We are the tangible expressions of the so-called best and the worst and the scores of lukewarm concoctions of goodness and badness falling in between. Observe the game of survival among various species and you will see what we humans term as greed, fear, villainy, thuggery, stealing, almost everything is available in its impulsive, instinctive form in nature. So as humans I don’t think we invent all these. We are mere more tangible expressions of the same traits. That’s why they say hate the evil, not its carrier. But that’s for the Gods to be so evolved in their consciousness as to root out the evil, in a detached manner, by killing the carriers, without having any personal feelings against the carrier in carrying out the duty of dharma. Rama and Krishna did the same. They bashed up the bullies, thugs and villains of their times without bringing the element of hate and anger in their supremely stable mind.

All of us have our very own set of people who create in us the age-old elemental emotions of love, hate, anger, jealousy, greed, lust and many more. Yours truly is no exception to this. There was this big class bully who triggered fear, anger and feeling of revenge in me. He drew sadistic pleasure in intimidating the so-called brightest boy in the small village school. When you are up against a bully the first impulse is to counter him at his level, that’s force. He was a big boy. So I would go into fields after the school and do push-ups to add bulk of muscles to my not so impressive body. After a couple of months, my thin arms tightened a bit but the appearance remained the same. Moreover, it was affecting my studies so I dropped the idea. I accepted the status quo. If you cannot manage the bully, avoid him. So I put my tail under my legs and would change my direction. Nothing shameful about it. He was three times my size. Even Krishna ran away from the battlefield once and came to be called ranchhod.

Now that leaves us with the irritants whom we can manage. There was this foxy guy who would start seething with malice at my merest sight. I well remember that I hadn’t done anything at all to deserve that type of antipathy. Maybe it had to do something with the past life. Maybe he found me in bed with his wife in the last birth and still carried that well-deserved hate for me without any apparent cause in this birth. He was the kind whom I could easily carry like a piteous puppy and dump in the village pond at the filthiest spot. So naturally he was a back stabber. He would talk ill of me, all the time. Said that I never return people’s comics, cheated in the exams, stole money from my father’s pocket, had no understanding of topics so just crammed the books, and (the heights of infamy) had molested a girl.

I kept on avoiding the possibility of dumping him in the pond. Then one day I got enlightened about the funda of life. You have to deal with the rascals whom you can manage. So I tracked his movements and got hold of him in absolute isolation. I took him by his collar and kept him held against a tree trunk, his toes barely touching the ground. I will never forget that shriek of wounded pride, and uncontrollable anger. I got spellbound and kept him like this for almost a couple of minutes. Then I opened my fists and he dropped like a ripe fruit. He started running with the most alarming call ever to get me murdered. ‘I will tell uncle!’ he shouted. Father carried a very hard hand for errant kids like me. So I wasn’t left with any option. I outran him, got my arms around him and jumped into the pond with him. Then he got forced bathing. I would keep his head down in the water and when I drew him out, out of breath, shouting at him, ‘If you go and complain to my father, I would drown you here in the pond!’ I drew a forced promise that he wouldn’t complain. Thankfully he got the message. Then it became a tacit understanding that I wouldn’t use physical measures and he won’t use his lolloping tongue against me.

But I could see that he carried that malicious dislike for me. Of course I hadn’t given him any reason to dislike me a bit less. No need to repeat that I wasn’t a saint, nor am I now. We were growing up playing nonsensical cricket in the wasteland outside the village. I considered myself an all rounder cricketer. All his hate for me had taken a cricketing avatar now. I would be bowled out by the oldest crone in the village who hadn’t ever thrown a ball in her life. My delivery might be sent for a six by the oldest grandpa in the village who had never touched a bat in life. But when it came to him I suddenly changed. When I came to bat he would insist to throw the ball. Then suddenly I would turn into Virender Sehwag and would hit sixes of his spin bowling which he threw with a fast bowler’s action after running from the boundary. He would beat his head in desperation. When I bowled he would insist to take batting, indicating to the boundary, meaning he would hit me for a six. Then with him standing at the opposite end, I would turn into a fierce West Indies bowler. Mostly I would scatter his wickets. Maybe he was playing with too much hate and hate of course saps us even of the little talent we have. After one such humiliating tumble in the cricketing duel with me I saw him crying piteously behind a heap of bricks. That was the time I seriously doubted he may commit suicide one day, writing a long accusing letter against me, sending me to jail and grinning triumphantly from above in the skies. I wasn’t loving and kind enough to allow him to scatter my wickets voluntarily or allow him to hit sixes by bowling loose deliveries. I have never been that saintly. But the fear of going to jail because of his looming suicide allowed me to avoid bowling to him or batting against him. Then he would boast that I had started to fear him as a cricketer.