Story of Christmas
Photo credit: caz1958 from morguefile.com
It is a special day. A day when the whole world celebrates, leaving behind all hardships and worries. 25th December. Christmas. Jesus Christ’s birthday.
In Kolkata, Christmas is synonymous with Park Street. Lights, decorations, music, food, booze. The party continues all night. Cutting across religious lines, though not economic lines, people spend the Eve at restaurants, pubs, the Cathedral Church or even on the streets.
Farid is 12. Doesn’t have clear unambiguous idea about sex, just started experiencing nightfall, never smoked a cigarette or consumed alcohol. Truly speaking, these things were out of his reach. And Christmas? Can’t even pronounce the word properly.
Even then, Farid is self-sufficient, at 12. It has been six months now since he started working in a meat shop at Mullickbazar. He never went to school, never felt the urge to. The only objective was Farid’s life is to sustain himself and his ailing uncle. His chacha was the only relative he knew of. Two of them live in a slum near Sealdah.
But Christmas is a special day for him too. It is a chance to earn some more money by skinning and cutting chickens. It is a day meant for huge profits. The meat shop owner Chanchal asked Farid to come early. He was promised Rs 5 for each fowl. A chance to eat something other than their regular muri-batasha at night, he couldn’t miss it.
Farid’s uncle Abdul is suffering from leprosy. He spends his days by praying to Allah for his nephew. Though the government offered free treatment to cure these deadly disease, neither of them was conscious about it. Traditions and myths as well as backwardness had barred Abdul from taking vaccines. He is now paying a huge price for that.
Farid got up early in the morning. It is 24th today. He walks the everyday route upto Sealdah and boards a Park Circus-bound bus. No one ever asked him for fare, this day isn’t any different. The bus conductors took him as a random beggar.
It is almost 4 PM now. The shop was still attracting customers. Chanchal had organized for chicken supplies thrice that day. The mercury level is coming down. Park Street is getting more crowded as evening approached.
It took two hours more to wind up the shop. Farid is too tired now, but the payment he received cheered him up. Rs 230. The highest amount of money he received ever in these six months.
Farid decides to buy roti-tarka for dinner, along with boiled eggs. He could get two plates for Rs 60. They could also get some nice breakfast tomorrow. Farid also thinks of taking his uncle to a doctor.
The cost of various items in the market is soaring. Farid often saw elders, more ‘intelligent people’ protesting about it. He came to know about the CPM, though never heard of Lenin. He came to know about the Congress, though didn’t know about independence. He never went to school; just saw a colourful flag being hoisted twice a year. Farid heard about the BJP, but understanding the differences between Hinduism and Islam was beyond his caliber. He knew the name of the Chief Minister- Mamata didi, but never understood why other didis of his neighbourhood were regularly abused and insulted by their fathers and husbands or humiliated in the public by unknown men.
Farid never dreamt of anything. His daily routine didn’t provide any variation in lifestyle. At night, he slept on the floor- without mattress or pillow. But sleep evaded him often; eyes refused to shut.
Farid decides to walk the length of Park Street to see the lights and extravagant decorations. The sun has already set. The mood is rising among the people.
He sees groups of beautiful girls walking past. Farid was old enough to get attracted towards the opposite sex. Girls wearing sleeveless dresses and short pants even in this cold weather, smoking cigarettes, increase his testosterone levels. He feels the desire- the desire to quench his sexual excitements; the desire to touch a soft, smooth, perfect skin; the desire to feel the….
A push from behind distracts Farid. People are always busy. Busy to remain busy.
‘Life is a race’- he heard the phrase in a Bollywood film he watched at a neighbour’s house a year back. He remembers it though he was not old enough to understand what it actually meant.
The bright blue sky on a sunny day, stars twinkling at night, a naked kid walking barefooted on the road, a boatman rowing on the Hooghly waters or a michhil of the civil society- all these poetic things never fascinated Farid. Perhaps he doesn’t deserve it by birth, many would say.
The light in Farid’s eyes is long lost. No one ever asked him what he wanted in life. Perhaps if Farid dies at this young age due to any political reasons or something like ill-treatment in hospitals, things would change. Perhaps there will be a candlelight march. Perhaps a rally by the so-called intellectuals. Perhaps the opposition will criticize the government for negligence. Perhaps the media will show his life interestingly and sympathetically to increase the TRP, though Farid’s life was always very dull like millions of others. Perhaps the educated people will make expert comments to their wives and children in front of the television set. Perhaps there will be a quarrel between political parties over his dead body. Perhaps the government will give huge amount of money to his uncle and even provide free treatment. Perhaps he will occupy the front page of leading dailies for a day.
Life offers excellent irony at this stage- no one would care to save others like Farid from similar fate. Perhaps his name will come up again when such incident repeats itself. ‘History repeats itself’, as Marx has said.
Farid buys a Santa cap for Rs 10. He wishes to gift it to his friend-cum-neighbour Aslam.
Farid sees that Allen Park was crowded. Some programme is going on. Music is playing. A soothing song whose words Farid doesn’t understand, it is English.
He sees a young couple kissing passionately at the back of the park. No one is looking at them. Farid looks on. The girl is guiding the boy’s hands inside her T-shirt upto her breasts with one hand, the other hand in the boy’s pubis.
Farid looks away. These things are not meant for him. He resumes walking, leaving behind Allen Park. Leaving behind those people who he thought to be ‘happy’.
Elvis’s voice continues with the song-
“Love me tender, love me………”
__END__
