Happiness... Redefined~

“Lal Mani!! Lal Mani!!” my mother called out to the bustling adolescent. “Come out, come out where ever you are..Time for school!”

“Oh! No!!” I exclaimed, “I’d just retired to bed, and the day is already here… No fair!!”

Umm.. Are you really thinking, Lal Mani is my name? Well, let’s say.. NO!! Not. That’s the name; I start my day with...At least, Used to start with. The name of my sister, My friend~ Every morning instead of coaxingly waking up to the birds’ cherub, my eyes spring open wide to the calls of “Lal Mani”..

I don’t really know what she was doing beneath my bed; it’s really hard to figure out what she’s up to half the time! But she just tousled and crawled out, and ran to the door and greeted my day with “Didi! No talk to yourself! Goo maarning!!” and the flashiest smile she could manage.

“No no Lal Mani, it is ‘Good Morning!’ Now repeat…….”

And yeah… she was gone like the bustling wind. Now you know why I called her a bustling adolescent, formerly. “Silly girl!!” I contemplated to myself, trying not to talk it out. Our little spoken English classes had begun ever since we proclaimed her as family. Well, Lal Mani.. As mentioned previously, a bustling adolescent, all of 12, standing at 5”2, glib, energetic, good-natured. And simply adorable! She had a happy, gleaming face with a infectious smile and poignant stony – gray eyes, striking curls – much to every girl’s envy, and a whitish complexion which reminded me of the sandy golden beaches of Goa. Her cheeks flushed bright pink when appreciated or made fun of. True to her name... Lal Mani... Her tone was as mellow as a koel, shall I say?! She was a slow novice though, which was why my English lessons were a little less than futile!

Her eyes, as I mentioned, soulful, spoke her doleful story, reflecting nightmares of the slum, her actual birthplace.

My grandfather, sat to relate her tale, and none of us stirred until he was finished. Ever since, she has been our family.

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The filthy squalor of a dreaded market was Lal Mani’s last memory – dirty, mud –stained floors, the air reeking of urine, meat and filth of all sorts, rotten edibles scattered and unfriendly butchers and the other population of the place.

Kamala Bai was a flower vendor, her dealing started right at 5 AM at sunup, freezing, quivering and taking what may come rain or sun, and it went on till she knew, for herself, that it was done for the day. This practice would bring her about Rs 30 a day, which would not even suffice for one square meal for 2 a day, at the current cost of living.

Her husband sold Paan-Bidi for a rupee near the motel, which at all times, bustled with laborers and prostitutes. His earning wouldn’t even gratify his own demands for alcohol and tobacco, which he seemed to be addicted to. He would often prevail over his wife, and beat her black and blue, till she went numb and shelled out all the money she had saved, possibly to satisfy her hunger, and not to get a sari. And so, the wife, in the family of two would go hungry, whilst the spouse lived on his addictions.

On one such instance, Kamala Bai coiled in twinge and emaciated and screamed for help, when her husband shut the door of the despondent, leaking thatched hut. Getting help was unimaginable and she knew she was going to breathe her last, before seeing her first... and last child. But all she knew was that she sought to give it life… it? Yes, she didn’t even know if it was a boy or a girl. And in silence, Lal Mani had seen the world and heard her mother’s subdued screams, amongst which was her name. She kicked her legs, turned on her stomach – some of the milestones that normal children wouldn’t have performed till they were 5 months or so, cold and hungry she yelled and tugged at her dead mother.

Lal Mani’s world – A tiny slum enclosed on all sides by muck and compost, like a moat. A world of rag pickers, street vendors, Paan – Bidi sellers like her father and thieves, robbers, prostitutes and people of other low lives by night... May be her first thought, before she realized she was hungry was that “Am I born to see death?”

At the age of six, however, in the innocent pangs of childhood, she assumed her mother’s profession. Selling flowers at the door steps of tiny houses, for extra tips. She would live on the food they gave her and the clothes, that a few kind hearted people lent. Her father had discontinued his paltry job and depended on his daughter’s income to satisfy his addictions, which had killed his wife.

Lal Mani’s duty started at 8 AM in the morning, before which she stood at a wrecked window and longingly gazed at children her age, kissing their parents good bye and hurrying off down the road, competing for the title of “Who would make it to school first”, that day.

She longed to go to school… What was that anyway? What did they do there?? Were two questions she never did know the answers to, but this is Lal Mani we are talking about, this little girl was determined to find out... and she was in no hurry… But she knew, she would, some day.

She avoided her father as much as feasible and he never spoke to her … Not even a word. Lal Mani tried to strike conversations with her father, about her mother, and the other many - many aspects she always wanted to know about… But no, her red eyed father would only squeal, “Shut up you she-devil!! Get away from here, before I kill you!” Lal Mani would powerlessly back off with teary eyes and lie on a bench in the park… her worst night mare was yet to come.

The park was known for occurrences of murder, theft and other unlawful activities, as the girl Lal Mani is, she had a strong sense, she would often justify her reasons of security at the park by asking herself – “What do I have, for them to rob me?” “What will they take before I’m the victim of murder…?”

Every night she would talk to the stars, wish on them and cry herself to wakeful slumber…

“Lal Mani!! Ooo Lal Mani!!” her father called out to her. “See what I have bought for you my girl, come out and see.” Lal Mani stepped out tentatively and with grave uncertainty. In one of her father’s hand lay a dress… A new dress, she had always wanted from the town, and in the other hand lay a dozen or more colorful bangles from the street fair. For a change, she did see a certain truth in her father’s statements… But…

Who was the man? The man next to her father?

The accompanying party stared down at Lal Mani with lust and muttered under his breath, “Rs 200”.. “Nahi sahib, that’s too less! It won’t suffice me for a week!”… “Oh okay then, Rs.300 but nothing more huh! I’m not a zamindar!!” he shot back.

….Tears filled Lal Mani’s eyes and sorrow drained her heart. Here was a father who wanted to sell his daughter, to meet his operating expense. Whom could she tell this to? She muffled her cries, bundled her belongings, looked up into the sky as if in need of help and left without regret.

She wandered hopelessly around the place in circles and cleared away dirty plates, wiping sambhar stains from tables and supplying chai, in exchange for food and a roof over head. Her inclination for attending school was slowly fading away like the obscurity of the night…All at the age of 9.

She tried her hand at various jobs – She worked at a construction site, carrying boulder and bricks, before she was passed off as too small and immature for the job; She chopped her lovely hair, stepped into un matching shoes, worn out pair of shorts and a buttoned down shirt – turning herself into a boy, or that’s what she thought she had done, a glimpse of her attire was enough to remind you of Oliver Twist and his miseries, which were quite in relation to Lal Mani. This attire got her a job of a black ticket seller, in front of the town theatre, overcoming various difficulties, pushing away thoughts of loneliness; She progressed in life’s journey into an intimidating insecurity of what it might hold for her.

On her usual peripatetic visits, with a perspective to upgrade what she called a job, she stumbled upon an orphanage, set up by local NGOs. She stood outside the open gates and stared at it… Some how, she FELT, help was coming her way… The orphanage only screamed “To the rescue”.

There were children of all ages and with it even came their different sizes, and their tales of woes. Unhappy and happy mummies and daddies scurried along, with a helpless expression of not having adopted a child up to their satisfaction, and the other set, beaming with pride for having found a reason for happiness, respectively.

For the first time in years Lal Mani wondered, pondered over her long lost memories and questioned herself painfully – “Where is my mother??” Warm salty tears wet her face, which was covered with grime and red bumps (Supposedly mosquito bites). It was then that my grandfather, a social worker as a hobby, stumbled over what he called “Child of misery”. He had worked with the NGO for nearly 2 decades, and counting, teaching them alphabet, numbers and art, which he rarely ever regretted.

“Who are you child? Where are you from?” he asked.

Lal Mani barely shook her scruffy head. He translated the query to Hindi and there was a reply, a faint one…

Wonder what the reply was, no body will ever know. When asked about it, my grandfather, a strong disciplinarian, shook his head and only said, “No child”… Uff.... But she was home with us the very day and from the day, her story was told, she was family.

I took initiative, over the years, which took all and sundry by surprise, and I couldn’t stop myself from saying, “What?” with a rather puzzled look across my face. I hurried her through the cleanliness regime, from brushing to scrubbing and washing. She was put on medications and vaccinated. She was given a new set of clothes, and food to eat; she didn’t even know their names!

The look on Lal Mani’s face was that of sheer delight… unforgettable, I say.

As she was taught to be gregarious and love life and civilization, everyone took to liking her around the house hold, even the doodhwala got used to her standing at the door step, even before he delivered milk.

My brother, however, younger to Lal Mani, strangely only stared at her like he had some connection from the past! He quickly would turn away and return to chewing gum and watching the intimidating animated stuff on the television, on our notice.

It was one of those days where I began to wonder when I saw lawyer uncle entering the house with piles of paper and files, looking stern and definitely on duty.

Lawyer uncle was one of my grandfather’s close associates, from the past…and they had never lost contact.

Today something was happening, and I needed to know what. I stood by the staircase, with Lal Mani clutching my arm for security…Usually I would have chased her around due to sensitivity, but today I just stood, and yes…listened!

“Adoption”…was a word that wedged my notice… “Generosity of adopting a girl child”…strengthened my interests… “Lal Mani”… yes!! I knew it! I whooped with joy. I had got myself an adopted sister.

She was later rechristened to Sapna… a dream. And with that we all hoped, she would forget her past. When called by her former name, she would correct us and say “Sapna” and flash her smile.

Ever since, I’ve tried to impart whatever knowledge I knew, computer, English… about the stars…Oh! How she loved it! I would even joke about her becoming a star gazer some day! Yes, and even about school.

She wasn’t half bad, I knew she was learning…Learning a lot more than just tactics of trading a job. She soon started school. Soon after, she would greet me with a smile, every morning with a “Good morning sis” …

I was so happy for her…happy for my sister…Happy for a child who was seeing happiness…Well, at least beginning to…

SNEHA.K.