Jostled amidst such a crowd was little Diya, who was trying her best not to drop her kulfi on the ground. She was excited as never before in her life. Living in a small, rented portion of an apartment, all that she would hear in a day was the screeching of her schoolteacher, the honking of auto rickshaw horns and the coughing of her old, house-owner. On odd occasions, she would hear her dad’s raised voice and savages screaming within cinema theatres.
For such a girl, the city carnival was something special. It was a night of marvel and splendour. The rhythmic drumbeats and the jingle of anklets, people dressed as tigers or saints walking down the streets posing for photographs, cotton candies and jigarthandas, spectators thronging the streets in their best, colourful outfits – it was all new and it was all terrific fun.
“Who’s that god, mummy?” Diya asked.
“Who?”
“The one with many hands and her tongue sticking out...” described Diya and pointed ahead. But, she got no answer as her mother got held up between the tummies of two gentlemen.
If ever there was something that Diya’s mother hated, it was finding her way through the forest of potbellies, while the unified stench of sweat clogged her nostrils. Wherever she went – the bus stop, the bookstore, her daughter’s school or the temple – the crowd was everywhere. She felt like the crowd was some kind of an evil monster, which would enclose her and try to choke her every time she stepped out of the house.
But, she never complained about it. She never said, “The government should do something about this and that.” She firmly believed that nothing short of a Kalki avatar could rid India of its crowds. And such a realisation gave her a sense of calm to deal with things.
“Hello Mrs.Prabhu! How do you do?”
It was a fake, English accent. Diya’s mother looked up and saw the smiling face of Mr.Satyam beside a fat, smiling face, which was Mrs.Satyam.
“Oh shit”, thought Diya’s father and gulped.
Running into Mrs.Satyam could mean nothing short of a disaster. The last time they had met, she had convinced Diya’s mother that buying a new house was absolutely necessary for Diya’s future. This had caused Diya’s father to lose some of his hair thinking of ways to make extra money.
And Mrs.Satyam always did this in a neat, professional manner. Diya’s father admired her for this talent of influencing other people. He thought she did a better job of placing inceptions than Leonardo DiCaprio even.
So he stood there, listening to all the pleasantries being exchanged, waiting for the time when Mrs.Satyam would drive in the nail.
“My son’s changed his school. We want better English education for him, you see”, said Mrs.Satyam.
“Better education...” Diya’s father sighed and noted down in his mind the next topic of argument with his wife. He wondered how many households owed their lack of peace to this woman genius.
Suddenly, there was an influx of dancers resulting in a lot of pushing, which in turn caused Mr and Mrs Satyam to take off. Diya’s father looked sideways at his wife. The damage had been done.
Instantly, the spirit of Diya’s father dampened. He lost interest in the festivities. They seemed to create an ironical situation where there was much joy and celebration all around while within the poor man’s heart was a deep concern for the remaining hair on his head.
Diya’s mother looked at her watch and gasped. It was ten minutes past the beginning of “Komala”, a television serial. It was not the usual tear-jerker types but was instead more about women liberation and feminism. Hence, she never failed to watch every episode of it. But now, she was already ten minutes late. She pulled Diya away from a Halwa stall and spoke, “Diya! Let’s go back. I think we have seen everything there is to see.”
Children can detect lies and absurdities, it is said. They had just begun to look around and had hardly seen anything. Diya conveyed this concisely with a frown and beseeching look on her face. Diya’s mother relented but Komala filled her mind. Would she become the District Collector once again? Or would she reject the post since her cruel and powerful mother-in-law was the one who offered it?
Meanwhile, Diya’s father was performing complicated math in his head to estimate the finances he would need for a “better” school. The results left him with a feeling of utter dissatisfaction. He never seemed to have enough to meet the demands. And that is when little Diya asked in a sweet voice, “Mummy, can I go on that giant wheel?”
“No”, replied her mother, pushing Diya to move ahead.
“Why not? I want to go.”
“Have you never been on a giant wheel before? Walk quickly. There are many more things to see.”
“No. I want to go on the giant wheel NOW!”
Her mother gave her a glare. Diya turned to her father.
“Daddy... daddy. Can I go on the giant wheel?”
“Please daddy. Please”, she pleaded tugging at his coat.
“Diya! Will you keep quiet and walk?” spoke her father sternly, “Or else we just leave you here.”
Diya frowned. She folded up her hands and began to walk silently. The merry noises continued around them and the three people waded through the crowd. They spoke not a word with each other.
At home, dinner tasted unpleasant, the vessels in the kitchen tumbled, the television remote went flying and the bedroom door was shut with a bang.
The next morning, Diya was ready for school and her dad gave her a warm smile. But, Diya turned her face away. She got into the school van and requested Praveen for the window seat. Diya knew the van would pass through the streets where the carnival had taken place. She thought of having one final glimpse of the giant wheel.
But, there was no giant wheel in the street. There were no artists or performers either. All that remained of the carnival was the litter of paper and plastic, carelessly strewn all over the road and run over by speeding vehicles.
Diya turned away from the window and opened her textbook to read the poem ‘Our great India’, for her third revision test.
