A Voice for Change

The waiting days wrenched my nerves. Each minute seemed like an hour, and two hours like a millennium. The kabadiwala, too, had business, and the mochi chipped away at plastics and leather merrily. Empty rickshawalas, not plying to customers’ needs, rushed past frivolously, as if Aishwarya Rai—or someone even higher up the ladder, Sonia Gandhi—were waiting for a ride. Still, these women had places to go, and yet the rickshawalas were arrogant towards their own bread and butter. So, to emphasise my point: even the nukad boy crying “bhindi le lo” was involved in an occupation, but not me. Yes, the doctor’s degree certificate, fresh from printing and framing, mocked me: “Go find a better way to while away time than shooing away the third generation of flies born in two months, thriving in the prosperity of an empty clinic!” If this was the mockery spat in my face by the offspring of my hard work, imagine what distantly related inanimates had to say. “Let the children do some drawings here...

 I step back. The gulmohar has bloomed in full vigour. The canopy of bright yellow and orange flowers filters the sharp sun rays. The rays reaching you are as soft as a baby's fur blanket. Not scorching, not pricking but gently providing warmth, as if giving a company from distance without letting you feel claustrophobic. The leaves rustle as the wind tickles them playfully. Some golden, auburn ones shed their inhibitions and kiss mother earth beneath. Of one tribe, one can't distinguish the just fallen from the eternally lying ones. Very peacefully, the dried community makes a place for the new arrivals. For some time they all unanimously, comfort and cuddle each other. Soak themselves in the moment of supreme unity. As if knowing that the next moment can be of departure, and goodbyes are not always easy.  The wind today is very mischievous, for he again starts the tickling and this time in a mood to set his charges topsy turvy. The serene golden brown leaves, get carried awa...