FATHER

“I think Father will have a long beard and… thick bushy eyebrows and… a slight limp and-“, said one of the two little boys sitting inside a village bus moving clumsily on a dusty road. ”And what makes you think that?” interrupted the other. The younger of the two replied innocently, “You see, Grandpa looks like that, so I think Father too will look like that because mother once told me that fathers and sons look similar.“ His brother then gave a more intelligent point of view, “No, I think you are wrong to say that. Father will look like that only when he grows as old as grandpa. According to me he will probably be clean shaven and smartly dressed, with gold rimmed spectacles like a clever businessman and he-“, but before he could get over with his description of a ‘clever businessman’ he was interrupted by a clever remark from his brother who had just had a brainwave, “Wait a minute, wait a minute, I remember mother had once told me that nobody in our family has ever had to wear spectacles, so it is unlikely that Father wears spectacles”... On and on they went, the little kids arguing about how their beloved Father would look. Little did they know what fate had in store for them.
They were excited, as any child would be to see his father for the first time or perhaps it is wrong to say that. It was not the first time they were to meet their father because they had actually stayed with him in the very early years of childhood, until a flood had forced them to abandon their village along with their mother, a religious lady but not so much ‘religious’ towards her marriage. The father, a farmer from the core of his heart had refused to abandon his fields to live in the city with his in-laws and had preferred to stay in the state-aided temporary camps just outside the cluster of flooded villages while the mother, a city dweller dragged to village after marriage grabbed the opportunity to return to the city and the ‘proper bringing up of the children’ came as a handy excuse.

Six years, six long years had passed and the two children had forgotten their father almost completely except for his name which was to be uttered on enquiry or written when the English schools which they attended demanded forms to be filled up. Their mother, her parents and her married sister was their complete family and a beautiful mansion their dwelling place. Finally she decided to let them meet their father who, she had told them was a ‘businessman’ being ashamed of calling him a farmer. On the other hand, after the floods the farmer had borrowed heavily from a moneylender to buy seed for his land but his land like his wife betrayed him. A crop failure forced him to give up farming. In order to clear his debt and to keep his body and soul together he sold his land and bought a few cows and gradually evolved to be the village milkman.
“But then, there has to be a garden. All houses in villages have a garden. Don’t they? “, said one of the little boys interrupting the other for the millionth time but before the other could reply the bus screeched to a halt. Following perfectly, the directions given to them by their mother, the two of them decided to alight and began to walk carefully observing their surroundings for a signboard that read a certain name where their father would meet them. They walked on, talking gaily about how their father would receive them. After a few minutes they noticed a thick crowd gathered around something on the road. While one of the two stood away from it, the other approached the crowd to satisfy his curiosity.
He returned saying-”They say, the village milkman was hit by a truck and is lying dead on the road”
“Oh! God”
“I feel so sad for his family”
“Yes, but there is nothing we can do about it. Let’s go. Father must be waiting.”

DO YOUR BIT

The sky grew darker with every step that I took, as I walked along the road, punctuating my brisk pace with several sneezes at a time. I espied a bright yellow streak of light tearing through the mist in the dark, emanating from a bulb in the backyard of a house. At first I decided to head straight for my cozy home ignoring whatever was happening but as I drew near, the distinct sobs of a young girl caught my attention. I approached the rusted iron gate with a degree of caution and peeped through.



I could clearly make out a young girl sitting among several piles of unwashed dishes rubbing one erratically, when suddenly a woman emerged from the house and dumped more plates in front of her. She shouted something and went back into the house. The girl who appeared to be not more than ten years of age continued to sob. Unable to stand any longer due to the chilling wind I left the place. A serious case of child labour, I thought.



The next day after some investigation I found out that a District Judge lived in that house with his wife and had no children. On being enquired by neighbours about the little girl, he always said that she was a distant relative who had lost her parents and he treated her like a daughter as he had none. But I knew better. So I took the initiative to help the girl.

Being too lily livered to perform a heroic deed of raising my voice against a District Judge, I wrote about this matter to an influential human rights activist whom I was acquainted with. She took immediate action and the matter was fixed within two months, with the guilty taken to task and the girl sent to an orphanage.



With thousands of such sad cases across the country, can we citizens rest in peace? The bitter truth is-Yes we can and we are doing so. Tiny, soft hands that must hold only pencil, paper and toys are made rough and hard through hours of labour. But we are content to remain ignorant. Aren't we? Little souls who must play around in the sun and on the green grass are enslaved as workers in factories, waiters in hotels and servants at home. But we are happy to lead our lives, aware yet silently aloof. Aren't we?



Brilliant brains that could have accomplished the impossible if proper education was given to them are made to scrape off food from our plates, clean our cars and polish our shoes. But we are satisfied to see potential future leaders, scientists and sportsmen being forced to remain illiterate and below poverty line, only because we are too busy to look in to their lives. Aren't we? Child labour is a problem that needs to be addressed nation-wide and can only be tackled by individual participation. But we choose to remain ignorant. Don't we? Well, if you do not, then the time is now, the person is you and the place is where you are. Go out and do your bit.

By,

ANKIT NEERAV

THE ALL-POWERFUL

That which has suppressed wars

But also ignited them,

Killed many a man,

but also saved lives as precious as a gem.



It has made philosophers what they are,

And great men, great.

By assisting them enlighten mankind

With all discoveries that they make



That which every child carries to school,

And back home with some respect,

Which older men preserve with more awe

May be to make or break the law.



Witness to the shaping of fate of nations,

By martyrs and great leaders,

Ever silent yet pronouncing,

Volumes to the world of readers.



Disasters, miracles, failures and success,

All alike to its all powerful countenance.

It has helped raise men's voices against the unjust,

it's mighty powers, all mortals can trust.



A silent spectator to the agony of ages,

Fury of conquerors, wisdom of sages,

Lamenting or exuberance of sad or happy souls,

Put together through infinite pages.



All recorded by the eternal,

Hyperboles, similes and metaphors,

All hats off and all heads bowed,

To the one and only All-Powerful.



That which some noble man has called , and rightly so,

"Mightier than the sword"

And which you have correctly guessed,

It's the Pen that I am talking about.



By,

ANKIT NEERAV

written when i was in class 9 in 2006.