Chocolate Shake

The day was one of September, 2008. The weather was surprisingly cloudy, and as I came out of DPS after giving the first B.Mat test, I had a whole evening to have some time off studies. No one studies after six hours of exertion, isn't it? I never studied the whole Sunday after any mock-test.

Yeah so, I checked out my purse. A hundred rupee note and not a single penny more. Sufficient enough, I thought, for either a good eat and a soft-drink, or a cheap eat and some nice dessert. Not both for a hundred bucks, as I couldn't spend the whole amount. Had to keep some change with myself too. As I was not too hungry, I decided for the latter. The best option would have been some pani-puris + a shake at Krazy Kool.

As the weather was nice and cool, I decided ride around a bit first. The area around Maroda was quite green, as always, and I set out for that side. Driving nearby Rajiv Sir's place was a good idea, as some old memories would be refreshed. Many months had passed before I last went that side, so I was somewhat excited.

I reached the Market square first. The Samosa guy saw me and smiled. I smiled back. Funny that he still remembered me, I thought. It was the favourite place for me and Dhruv to have a quick tummy-filler before 'the' class. But that day I was not in a mood for Samosas. I wasn't too hungry. Pani-puri (or gupchup was we call it here) was what I had to go for. I went a bit further, in the hope of finding the familiar gupchup waala. Damn, he wasn't there. But there was another man, much older than the previous one. And yeah, he was selling gupchups too.

Surprising, I thought. Maybe they were related. He didn't even have a 'thela', as the earlier bloke had. It was just a small make-shift kind of double conical thing, something on which they usually sold chanas and stuff. I went near him and asked:

"Wo pehle waale bhaiya kahaan hain?"

"Kaun pehla waala saab? Ek mahine se main hi baith raha hoon idhar. Gupchup khilaoon kya?"

Okay, might be that the previous one found a better business somewhere else. Who cared? I was tired enough to search for another place, and moreover my ultimate aim was the chocolate shake at Krazy Kool. It was some time (read months) before I had one. Mom didn't give me much money those days so I couldn't have afforded to spend sixty bucks on a shake more often.

I nodded in the affirmative to this man. He gave me a plate. I saw it, it wasn't clean. Maybe his business was not flourishing as of yet. The fully filled bag of panipuris confirmed my thought.

"Bhaiya, isko saaf karke do na! Ganda hai."

He smiled a bit with his broken teeth, tried to show some concern, and cleaned it with a cloth he had.

"Ho gaya saab!"

He was making me feel real awkward now by adressing me by 'saab'. If not more, he was at least four times my age. But I didn't tell him anything. I didn't want to waste much time there by engaging in useless conversations. He took some time in making the 'masala'. It wasn't ready beforehand and he was pissing me off now by the amount of time he was taking. It was going to rain in some time, as the dark clouds and the wind were suggesting, and I wanted to be off that place as soon as possible.

"Pyaaz daalna hai kya masala mein?"

"Rehne do bhaiya, aur thoda jaldi karo. Baarish hone wali hai."

Onions were costly anyway, and I didn't want to him to get a lesser margin on his already stagnant business. Needless to say, my time was saved too. He gave me the first pani-puri.

"Paani theek hai bhaiya?"

Okay, bhaiya was not so awkward. Good that he stopped his 'saab'.

"Haan, sahi hai. Kitne ke diye gupchup?"

I realized that I should have asked this beforehand. Not that it mattered much, but just for the sake of formality.

"Do ka teen."

Hey, that was cheap. At all other places it was either "Paanch ka Paanch" or "Paanch ka chaar". His gupchups were fine enough, at par with others. So his lesser rate was another proof of his business not taking off.

It was after gulping down the third gupchup that I actually paid some attention to the small kid sitting on the nearby "puliya", as they say. I can't recall the English word for it. It's just a small brick-cemented backless bench, stuff on which you can sit. The kid was studying something from a book, with full concentration. And the old man feeding me was checking him out intermittently. Maybe the kid was his grandson. He was in the familiar school-uniform of government or BSP schools, sky-blue shirt and navy-blue shorts. Might have been some seven-eight years old. What was impressing about him was the concentration with which he was trying to remember the stuff written in the book. It was funny, actually, the way he was reading and then closing his eyes tight, trying to mug up the stuff. A short smile came up on my lips, mouth filled with the gupchup-water. Trying to smile more resulted to be a bad idea, as I splattered the water down on the ground. It was more comic than the kid trying to mug up.

"Kya hua bhaiya, paani teekha hai kya?"

"Nahin paani badhiya hai, gale mein chale gaya galti se. Kitna hua abhi tak?"

"Do aur to das ka ho jaayega. Aur khilaana hai kya?"

"Nahin das ka kar do bas."

I took out the hundred rupee note and handed him.

"Chillar nahin hai kya bhaiya?"

"Nai hai. Bas sau ka note."

He sighed. Checked out his pocket. Just 3-4 ten rupee notes and some coins.

"Ruko bhaiya main chillar leke aata hoon, hai na. Paas hi hai dukaan. Jaldi aata hoon."

The market square was some distance away. I thought I'd go and get it instead. But then I didn't want him to feel insecure, by not paying him and going off too far.

"Theek hai, jaldi karna". He would take at least ten minutes, I knew. But I had no other option. Mr. chocolate shake will have to wait for some more time now.

He went off. I went closer to the kid, who seemed to have eventually lost his archer-concentration in his book and was gazing dreamily at the birds chirping on the tree. I checked out the book he was studying from.

English! Now that came as a real surprise. I'd not expected him to read English, no. And it wasn't a Hindi-medium English book. It was a proper second standard English book, though state board.

"Angreji padh lete ho?"

His chain of thoughts was broken. Maybe he was flying along with the birds by that time. He might surely have cursed me for getting him back onto the earth.

"Haan", he replied, a bit rudely, still looking at the birds.

"English medium mein padhte ho. Yahin Maroda waale school mein? School ki fees kaun deta hai?"

I came directly to the question which was bugging me. Even Government English medium schools had a significantly high fee. I knew there was only the one in that area, in Maroda, where the younger of the two children of my domestic help studied. I had heard her complain about the high fees there compared to the Hindi medium ones.

"Dada", he replied, pointing at the man who was busy getting change of hundred rupees at a distant shop.

I was stunned. The thought of his grandfather paying off the kid’s school fees with the amount of money he made through his panipuris was unbelievable. The maximum amount of profit he could have made in a day would not be more than Rs.30-40. I’d thought they’d struggle even for their two square meals a day. It was really surprising. And then I thought of his “dada”. He might be somewhere around 65-70 years old. For how long would he be able to feed both of them like this? For how long, would he be able to pay off his exorbitant fees? I just hoped he lived for at least ten more years without any ailment.

"Maa-baap?"

He looked at me now, as I asked him that question.

"Nahin hain. Maar diya unko raat mein bandook waale ne. Maine dekha. Mere saamne maara. Bhai ko bhi maar diya. Ek saal ho gaya hai."

All of that came so suddenly. It was shocking. I swear I'd never in any crazy thought imagined that such would be his reply. I saw a teardrop trickle from his eye, down his small and dirty cheeks, onto the ground. Another one fell on almost the same spot, but not from his eye this time. I knew my stupidly emotional self quite well.

"Mereko paisa kamaana hai. Bahut paisa. Doctor banoonga. Dada bolta hai mereko pakka doctor banaaega."

I kept silent. Even if I’d tried, it would have been difficult for a word to come out. I just kept staring at his face, blankly.

"Sote kahaan ho? Ghar ka kya hua?", I asked, after I was finally normal.

"Ghar duur gaaon mein hai, Dantewara. Wahaan se bhaag gaye hum log. Abhi yahin sote hain." He pointed at a pile of rags under a small shed, which was supposedly their bed. I could see some books and one or two copies nearby, neatly piled up.

And I now knew who might have killed his family. Dantewara is one of the most Naxal-infested areas in Chhattisgarh.

I gingerly patted his back after a minute or two of silence, and smiled at him reassuringly. He smiled back.

"Banega chotu, ekdum doctor hi banega tu. Bas padhai kabhi mat chhodna. Padhte rahega aise hi to jaldi doctor ban jaayega. Koi kaam karne bole to bhi padhai nahin chhodna. Theek?"

"Theek", he replied. His smile widened, baring his two big teeth in front, with a small gap. I checked mine. Strange coincidence.

I sat there for some time, looking at the child, thinking about him, myself, his future, my future. His life, my life. A water drop fell on my hand. It wasn't a tear this time, sheh. I looked up and it was just starting to drizzle. The boy ran under the shed. I could hear some heavy running footsteps now. His "dada" was coming back, counting the money in his hands. He was almost 50 metres away.

Just at that moment, something crossed my mind.

I sprang up, on my Dio, started the ignition and sped off. I could hear the old man shouting behind me. I didn't slow down until I was some 500 metres away. Then I looked back. I could see both of them, under the shed, looking at me like dreamy statues. I smiled and looked up. Raindrops fell on my face; the rain had become quite heavy now. I thought about the chocolate shake. I didn’t know when, and whether, would I be able to have one again, without thinking about the kid. My pocket was empty, but my mind was filled with endless thoughts. I didn't think about the shake again, at that moment. Honestly, I was ashamed.

I only hoped that the kid did not belong to 'general' category. And that those ninety odd bucks would help him, whatever little bit, in becoming a great doctor one day. I could only hope, actually, because in the back of the “practical” and non-emotional part of my brain, I half-knew that he was pursuing a seemingly lost cause.