This is a work of fiction.
"Hari! O Hari! Get babu to do his homework, and off to kitchen you go! That's enough play for the day. Start working for dinner," I yelled at the top of my lungs from the altar room on the third floor.
Hari; our twelve year old houseboy was playing with my five year old son on the street below. Accompanied by other kids from the neighborhood, their chattering and commotion had made it hard for me to concentrate on my evening aarati. I was brandishing the oil lamp around the pictures and idols of gods and goddesses with my right hand, ringing the prayer bell with my left, murmuring some sacred Sanskrit mantras-whose meaning I never knew, all while thinking about the household chores, the office gossips, my son's school, my husband's weird friends, and the nice silk saree Ramila; my husband's friend's wife, wore at a party the other day.
"You, young man! need to go to your room and start working on your homework right now", I interrupted my son's animated dance. He was throwing his hands up in the air and going around Hari in circles. Hari meanwhile had started chopping onions. For reasons too obvious, the morning glory on my son's face faded instantly to a morose sunset. He silently took those small steps to the kitchen door, stopped short and looked back at me. His bright little eyes were silently begging me for a favor. I knew he didn't want to study but I couldn't let myself melt away. Being a parent is tough for sure.
"But babu you know you have to be a big man someday, and for that you have to do your homework. Finish that up real quick and I got a treat for you, " I could have just said a Choco-fun bar instead of a treat for he knew I had stacked them on my bedroom closet for occasions as such.
"And you?" I turned to Hari. "Listen to me! He is just a kid, but you're not. Can't you tell him when it's time to study?" Hari silently worked on the onions as I kept ranting.
"From now on, after you come from school, finish up your homework and off to the kitchen straight away. We're not having dinner in this house at 10 anymore! Is that clear to you?" I pointed my stiff finger at his face. He didn't let out a single sound, his eyes kept gazing the floor as if he was searching for a hidden answer amid the maze of the kitchen tiles.
"Yes, Madam!", he nodded. I could see his wet eyes glitter gently in the kitchen light. It could have been the onions, or my words. I did not know and I did not care.
Deciphering my feelings towards Hari was harder for me than comprehending those Sanskrit mantras I chanted daily. There were moments when he felt so close like a family member and there were times I never wanted to see him again. The first pair of clothes that I bought in Dashain would be for him, and yet days when I wouldn't be irked at him were a rarity like snow in Kathmandu. If it wasn't for him, I wouldn't have been able to take a job, let alone going to and hosting those kitty parties. But somehow I was never satisfied with his work, the carpets weren't properly vacuumed, kitchen was always a mess, plants outside were dry, bathroom was not clean, and so on. May be that's the problem with us women. When we have to do the chores we never cease to complain why we are always the ones supposed to do them, and when we manage to find someone else to do it for us, our feminine ego keeps poking us-telling us that their sloppy work can't even compare to our flawless domestic endeavors. We never get satisfied, we never stop complaining.
The father of the boy who worked at my mother's place had brought Hari to our house. From what he told, they both hailed from the same village in Ilam and that Hari had lost both of his parents in a bus accident when he was four. Hari was then taken by his uncle who had his own poverty and five children to deal with. So long story short, Hari found a place in our home-in search of education and a better life just like thousands of other little girls and boys, who give up their homes and families (if they are lucky to have one) and land up in Kathmandu. Three meals a day, education in the cheapest school, and the worst corner of the house to sleep is what they get in exchange of a deprived childhood. But wait, I'm the one narrating this story not Hari, so I should be in favor of the deal. Yes, Hari definitely enjoyed his life at our home than at his uncle's in the village. Well I had never asked him but I really doubt that he reply would have been anything different.
Days rolled by and I was still thinking about the household chores, the office gossips, my son's school, my husband's weird friends, and the nice silk saree Shilpa; my husband's friend's wife, wore at a party the other day, while brandishing the same oil lamp around the gods and goddesses in the altar room with my right hand, ringing the prayer bell with my left, and murmuring the Sanskrit mantras-whose meaning I never knew. My bashing and scolding at Hari's sloppy work continued incessantly like the Monsoon rain. I was still making my son do his homework with those Choco-fun perks. While he was still a baby on his seventh spring, Hari had morphed into a cheesy teenager with an annoying faint line of hair on his upper lips that had robbed him of his innocent looks.
It's never easy to have a teenager in your house, even when they're not your own children. I had to slap Hari when I found that he smoked a cigarette.
"You have no right to hit me. I am no one to you. You do not need to worry about me," He replied back with placing his hand firmly on his cheek that had glowed red.
"Don't you reply back to me!" I growled. "I'm the one who's taking care of you for the past five years. I'm never going to let a smoker get near my son!" I slapped him one more time.
Love and hatred were like the yin and yang of my relationship with Hari. I wanted him to be an obedient pet of mine, one who concurs to everything I say, but on the contrary I was gradually realizing that he was seeking his independence all the time. Hatred started to eclipse my love. I was afraid that Hari could do a lot of flagrant things that he could not, when he first came to us. I would gripped by paranoia just imagining the things he could do. He could burn the house down and run away. He could steal all my jewelries. He probably could even hit me back when I slap him. He could even kill my son! But wait! Let me take that back. That's one thing he could never do. Hari had found a younger brother in him, and Pravin too loved him more than Choco-fun.
"No, it's just my ugly fantasies. He might be fourteen, but he's still a kid, a good kid," I would console myself.
Then the unthinkable happened one day. I had my usual complains about the cleanliness of the bathroom, and had asked Hari to clean it immediately. A few hours later, realizing that I didn't had my gold earrings on, I went back to check if I had left them on the bathroom basin. I had a habit of forgetting such pieces every time I made a trip to the bathroom basin. I couldn't find them. I searched every single corner of the bathroom, bedrooms, living room, and the stairs. I brought the whole house upside down, but could only find dirt, dust, and despair. I wasn't going to let go my favorite pair of rings that easily. My mother had passed them to me on my wedding. I yelled at Hari asking him to join me in the search but there was no reply. Hari wasn't home, but before I could have my full suspicion on him, I heard him whistling as he made his way up the stairs.
"Where are you coming from?" I screamed.
"Ummm......Uh...from the store Madam," he looked frightened and his feeble voice wasn't helping him at all.
"Why to store? Why this time? Show me what you brought from
there," My anger was justified; I had this eerie feeling that he might
have sold my earrings to purchase something for himself. I pounced upon him and frisked
his body, all over. When I did not find anything I looked for, I began
wondering if he had an accomplice, perhaps one of the local boys outside who
would help him hide all the cash he supposedly collected, by selling my jewelries.
"You filthy traitor! I gave you everything and this is what you do to us!" I was outraged; I didn't know or care whether it were my words or my hits and blows that were hurting him more.
"You don't belong here, you piece of crap! Pack your belongings and leave this house right now," I was shaking with rage.
He kept crying and declined any wronging amid sniffles. But I had decided, I was no longer going to deal with this thief in the house. I had millions of other problems to deal with.
My ears sans the precious earrings didn't listen to his begging and pleadings, and before my husband came home, I had ferreted Hari out of the house. He had always complained that I was a bit too harsh on the boy, but when it came to the matters of the house, I spoke the final word. My husband had no choice but to comply with my recent act. That night I realized after many years that getting the dinner ready even for a family of three wasn't that easy.
Days passed by and it took a while before I learnt to live without Hari. I would open my eyes at the dawn and start cursing the chores that lay ahead of me-haunting me like ghosts. Preparing the breakfast, getting babu ready for school, running late for office were like nightmares hazing me in the broad morning light. Office was tough, it felt even nastier when it was time to go home thinking of the burden of housework that would be waiting for me. Somewhere in the horizon where this fog of chores would settle in a clear sky, I could vision Hari's face grinning at my miseries.
Few months later, during a house cleaning spree I heard my husband shouting my name in excitement as if he had won a lottery. I rushed to see if he was fine. He emerged from the underneath of the bed, with the dusty earrings, one in his each hand.
"Aren't these yours Honey?" he asked, flashing them in front of me.
I couldn't believe my eyes. I snatched them from him and put them on my palms, stared at them with wide-open eyes, blew the dust from them, and put them on. As I stood in front of the giant mirror on the bedroom, I could see my face with a little joy and a lot of guilt, perfectly mixed together.
"And all this time I was blaming Hari. How can I forgive myself now?" I hugged my husband like an innocent criminal.
"Can't be undone. Just learn to control your emotions from now on," he patted on shoulders but they were not enough to hold the drops tears I shed that Saturday morning.
I desperately wanted to reach out to Hari, wherever he was, so that I could apologize to him, in the gentlest and deepest of ways, with the most loving and caring words. How I wished I could find him, so that he could forgive me and I could forgive myself.
Three years down the line, the memories of Hari had almost faded away. We were then a family of four. Nitin; my young son was already a year old and Pravin was now ten. It was a real joy to see the boys growing up so fast. I had one more houseboy named Keshab who stayed with us for about a year. His story wasn't too different from Hari, except there were parents and not just poverty in his village. He hated the life in the city and went back to help his parents with the farm. I never cultivated any feelings of affection or hatred towards him. Unlike Hari he liked to spend his time in solitude. Pravin's best friend was the computer that we had bought him-he didn't let Keshar touch it even once.
One Saturday evening I was brandishing the oil lamp around the pictures and idols of gods and goddesses with my right hand, ringing the prayer bell with my left, murmuring the Sanskrit mantras-whose meaning I never knew, all the while thinking about the household chores, the office gossips, my son's school, my husband's weird friends, and the nice silk saree Pratima; my husband's friend's wife, wore at a party the other day. Suddenly there was a knock on the door downstairs. My husband had gone to one of his friend's place, Pravin had gone outside to play, and my baby boy was sleeping. I reached for the door and to my utmost surprise, and delight, and shock, and tremor, and everything else-it was Hari! A muscular young lad, who still had hint of a boyish look, but his whole body had donned a strong masculine maturity.
"Namaste Madam!", he sounded like a real man.
"Oh my god! Hari!" I gasped. "Come, come inside, oh god! look at you!" I felt his cheeks making no effort to hide my excitement.
"How is everything? And where is Sir and babu?"
"Sir is with his friends. Babu will be back any moment. Come here and meet the other babu," I took Hari to my sleeping angel.
"He is so cute," he exclaimed.
"Isn't he? Just turned a year last month."
Hari reached for his wallet, took out a 20 rupees note and placed it next to Nitin's pillow.
"You don't have to do this. Please," I whispered.
"Please let me," he insisted.
"Let's go to the kitchen. I'm craving for a cup of tea," I suggested.
While at the kitchen Hari unsuccessfully tried to persuade me to let him prepare the tea. I didn't let him do that. Even though I hadn't apologized to him yet, I was not going to let go this small moment of opportunity pass me by. Yes I was going to serve him, so I could feel a little better about myself. May be he would take it as a small gesture of my apology.
"So how are you doing these days?" I asked him as I sipped in some tea.
"Nice Madam, I'm working as a peon in an Office in New Road. I have rented a small room in Jorpati. Can't complain."
"I'm glad to hear that."
All these years, Hari hadn't even left Kathmandu, and I never came across him. There are hundreds of people you do not ever want to see in your life, and yet collide with them at the malls, at the restaurant, in the bus, on the streets. It seems like the whole world is full of people that you either don't know or are least interested in seeing. And there are those few people you really want to meet, say hi, say hello, chat, talk, say sorry, or say anyhting, but for some mysterious reasons the moments of their lives never crisscross yours.
I had planned a hundred different ways I would say sorry if I ever found him, but while Hari was here, I hadn't uttered out a single word that could be considered something close to a real apology. He felt so grand and dignified with every single word he spoke. I was clinging onto this tiny bit of my ego somewhere in my heart that just won't let me say the word.
"We found the earrings underneath our bed later," it felt awkward to bring that topic, but I had to do it anyway.
He smiled and kept his silence and that tortured me even more. How could he be so noble and dignified? I felt like a tiny atom while he kept expanding like the cosmos.
"But tell me now! Why didn't you give me the reason you went to the store that day?", I looked at his face with the same desperation that a farmer whose fields have been dry for years looks up to the clouds in the horizon.
"To smoke a cigarette," he replied.
"Why didn't you tell me that then?"
"I was afraid. Remember! You told me that you would never let anyone who smoked get near to babu? I love babu so much. I was afraid you were not going to let me play with him if you had found out that I hadn't quit smoking," he tried hard but couldn't hold his emotions. A couple of tear drops ran south from his eyes.
I didn't know what to do or say. All this time he loved my son like a brother, and I threw him out from the house like a piece of garbage. I was the most horrible woman to have ever walked on this planet-I had no doubts!
Few minutes later Pravin came back home. Hari and I had moved from the kitchen to the living room. I could see Hari's face light up with delight at the sight of Pravin. Hari knelt down and spread his arms wide open on seeing Pravin walk along the corridor that led to the living room. This was something Hari used to do every time Pravin came back home from somewhere, Pravin would rush into his arms and they would embrace each other like inseparable lovers. I knew the upcoming moment would fix it all, Pravin would hug Hari with all the warmth and love in the world, and I would cry watching them. Yes, that would be the real cure for my guilt and remorse. But life really is a puzzle-its mysteries endowing us mortals with the joys and happiness that we don't deserve at times, while flagellating us with its crude and harsh realities at moments we least expect it. The harsh reality of life at that moment was that three years had already passed since Pravin last saw Hari. While Pravin could remember all his teachers', and classmates' names, Hari's place in his mind was taken up by computer games, science projects, Bollywood songs, boys-toys, and everything else a 10 year old thinks about.
He looked somewhat itchy to see a stranger on his knees on the living room. He came and hid behind me and asked, "Mom! who is that guy?"
"Go to your room, I'll come to you in a minute," I told Pravin. He obeyed.
I couldn't take it anymore. The whole earth was sinking underneath me. I hugged Hari as we were both sobbing like babies.
"I'm sorry Hari, I'm sorry. I'm the most cruel, most sinful, most evil, wicked person in the whole world. Please forgive me Hari! Please forgive me!"
"It's alright Madam. I don't have anything against you. Please let Pravin know that I love him more than a brother. And give him these Choco-funs. I will go now," He wiped his tears, took out a whole pack of Pravin's favorite treat, placed it on the table, and made his way to the door.
"Stop Hari Please!" I shouted, but he didn't look back.
I went upstairs to Pravin's room. He was playing some games on his computer with headphones on. So involved in his own world! So detached from the situation! And there I was staring at my ten year old with images of Hari pinching my heart and soul. Perhaps, time would heal my pain and anguish, but I couldn't imagine how I could sleep that night. I had robbed Hari of his childhood, robbed him of a better future, I robbed him from his only love in the world, I robbed him of his brother. I was the most heinous robber in the world and how dare could I think about sleeping that night? A perpetrator like me deserved not to get any sleep for weeks.
I wished I could be like my child, I wished I could erase Hari's memories the way he seemed to be able to. I wished I could just sit next to him and think about nothing but the animated characters dancing on the screen. Perhaps that's the whole purpose of childhood; human life in its purest and innocent form, to teach us adults how to live our lives. Perhaps we can all learn from children, not just learn how they learn, but learn how they forget.
