Broken

This story formed itself on three separate occasions and was finally written on a cool breezy night. It became more special after I recited it to someone immediately after its completion. Not very often do I get to read stories out but for the one time I did, it sure feels good. This story for me is like winter. Cold, numb fingers and dull aches, but some warmth inside, and just about enough. I hope you like it :)

"Do ghosts live on Peepul trees?" I ask, peering across the terrace into the hazy silhouette of a clump of trees far away. The winter sun trying its best to warm my bones against the chilly wind that plays with my messy hair. "Ghosts and Gods both," says my aunt knowingly as she pours me yet another cup of strong, milky tea. A mug, rather. I warm my numb fingers on it. I am cold. I'm in a village for all practical purposes. My phone does not work here, buffaloes sit lazily basking in the faded sun, children quarrel over a game of marbles, and a twenty-two-year-old misfit sips tea sitting on a cot.

Needless to say, this is not my natural habitat. For one, I can see the sky in all its sprawling, blue glory. Two birds skip off the draft and dive one after the other to swoop onto some unknowing prey. Somewhere, a rooster crows, which is quite odd for two o clock in the afternoon. Also odd for this time of the day is the cold that seeps through to my bones. I tell my aunt about life in the city. She listens wide-eyed. She cannot fathom the coldness of it all, the steel and glass prison that I work in, the dreadful fact that I know exactly how each day is going to be. She does not understand how free I feel here without my cell phone chaining me like an invisible umbilical cord, how clear the air here is without a thousand conversations riding the airwaves form tower to tower. All is well in my world though, as she pours me yet another cup of tea. I smile. Family.

As the clock strikes four, children start pouring into the terrace. My cousin sister is the neighborhood teacher, a prestigious title earned through months of reading aloud the alphabet, teaching children to dot their i's and cross their t's and much red ink spread over her soft palms. The children eye me suspiciously. After a while they decide I'm no threat and a couple of them greet me. "Good Morning, Ma'am!" they say in that sing song chorus I used to be a part of, long back. I smile again.

This class is quite different from any I have seen. The children, aging from five to ten, do not sit still. They laugh and cry freely. They sing their lessons. Some are struggling to hold pencils while some are proud to be old enough to wield pens, prized possessions no doubt for those little fingers. It is, in a way, like an overgrown garden. Disordered and chaotic but oh, so beautiful.

One little boy stands out, though. There's something strange about him even in this scene which is none too familiar to me. He takes and exceptionally long time to write. I kneel next to him and peer into his notebook, bound with thread. All the words are misspelled, the letters are fractured, misshapen little creatures, and the boy's face is a mixture of confusion and terror. 

www.robonwriting.com; wikipedia.com

I look at my sister with concern. She nods silently and tells the class to write numerals to a hundred. She walks over to me and looks into his book. Then she looks at me, her eyes full of exasperation and silent despair. "There's something wrong with him," she says, the winter haze making its way into her voice. "He's just slow to learn. He's not too rich. His father was supposed to come see me today." She looks at him with sadness. He merely smiles as he squints into the sun. "Take care of him will you?" she says and leaves me with him.

I am now a helpless subject of the boy's scrutiny. He squints at my face, the winter sun giving me a halo. I try to smile, but it falters. This will not go well, I think. I need something to say, to engage his mind, so much more free than mine. "Do you like aeroplanes?" I ask him , finding my savior in a flash of supposed brilliance. "Planes." He says after a couple of seconds of incomprehension, his face lighting up. "Planes!" He says again, his hands tracing a flight path, cutting through the cold air. "Let's make one!" I say with poorly disguised relief and I tear out two pages from his notebook and give him one. I make the first folds quickly, my fingers using their own memory saved from eons ago when I used to fly. He sits there confused, his fingers not grasping the movements, ever so slightly out of his control. I repeat slowly. He follows this time. He laughs clearly as he does and the air is warmer, if only by a fraction.

As his small hands struggle to give life to the piece of paper, I see him deep in penance, wanting nothing more to bend the paper and his own limbs to his will. Ages pass by with me lost in the slow dance his fingers play with the paper, becoming more and more refined until he makes the final fold with all the grace of a finishing pirouette. As we walk to the boundary I silently pray that it flies well, to some unknown tree-dwelling deity, lord of planes and the winter wind.

The child blows into the paper plane in a ritual he is sure will lend it magical wings, and jumps slightly as he releases it into the vast, cold expanse of air.

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And it flies majestically, circling us and riding a draft into a slow dive reminiscent of the two birds, then stalling, then diving again and continuing its graceful pirouette as the boy's wide eyes follow it in flight, even as he dives and stalls with the plane, no longer bound by his form, and having lived its short life with the grace of a dying star, the plane lands on a buffalo sitting some distance away. The animal merely grunts and goes promptly back to chewing its cud, a business more important than all the machinations of this world.

I look at him. He is laughing. He is in fits. "You did well," is all I can muster. I ruffle his hair gleaming brown in the sun, and he nods with twinkling eyes. I turn around to see an old man, whose eyes tell me he is the father. "He did well." I say weakly to him. He merely nods, other gestures being foreign to him. He picks the child up into his arms, never too weak for his son. Then he looks at me with a smile and moist eyes. I cannot look away. They are too deep for me to swim away.

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My mind goes back five years when I had returned with my examination results to my father. "You could have done better," was all he had said. I remember sitting there under the same sun with the result sheet in my hand, a piece of paper that would never, ever fly.

I look at the child and his father again. It's not cold anymore. 

The wind stands still as if in respect, and for a moment the sun shines brighter.

Then it hits me.

The boy isn't broken.

I am.

I walk away silently and gaze across the open fields into infinity until my eyes are moist.

Perhaps it is just the cold wind.

Perhaps.