The 20 Year Circle (Monstera)
He is standing on the edge of a large, dusty school ground. The ground is dotted by Neem and Peepal trees sporadically along its edges — their shade being the only place to offer respite in the tropical summer of an Indian coastal town.
There isn’t much movement. It is 2:00 p.m., already half an hour past the final period.
Half an hour earlier, 1:30 p.m.
Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding!
The rhythmic, melodic ringing of the school bell releases a shocking opposite — a wave of raw energy in the form of kids in white uniforms, ushered by a cacophony of sounds. It is released through a small, unlucky gate that often struggles to contain the boundless energy bouncing and radiating from this mass — the unshaped, unactualized matter of human potential.
He was one of these kids. Bigger than most others in his grade, the human wave never overwhelmed him. In fact a part of him enjoyed it; it was the best place for some harmless pushing around before heading home.
2:00 p.m.
He scratches his nose, looking around the ground as if waiting for someone. Above his nose, a fresh bruise — a reminder that school is not a peaceful time for any kid. It is verily a representation of the ‘real’ world that parents warn their kids about. Kids use their strengths to advantage, play territorial games, and there is at most times a very clear hierarchy.
Kids can be surprisingly creative at inflicting damage, too. He is thinking about Rinku’s steel bottle. Rinku had deftly used it in their fight to compensate for his lack of size. The bruise was proof; Rinku was half the size of the kid but had caused serious damage.
2:10 p.m.
The sun is unrelenting. Beads of sweat roll down his forehead. He barely notices them. But his mind is racing. Mukesh bhai, the ‘autowallah’ who was supposed to pick him up and drop him back home has not shown up.
The over-the-top energy of “chhuti” time has now died down, most kids have already left for home. Some of the last kids pick up their bicycles and begin to leave. As they pass by him, they throw him a confused look — wondering what his deal is.
He is too scared to meet their eyes. Instead, he watches their feet and bicycle tyres drift further away. A sinking feeling brews in his stomach. He starts breathing faster as he is ‘left behind’, alone on the ground.
He feels very vulnerable and scared. What should a third grader do when he is left behind and forgotten? At least in his mind?
His cortisol level increases. His ancient fight-or-flight instinct is activated and he decides to walk home. He doesn’t remember the way — only bits and pieces as he’s never walked home alone. His parents were very responsible in that way.
But he decides he will have to figure it out. He starts out of his school gate with small, slow steps.
As the familiar outsides of his school fade and he walks into the city, his vision tunnels. His breath starts racing again. He doesn’t know what to do about it.
‘Just focus on the next step’, his internal voice says. It’s that or whatever infinitesimal version of the ‘voice-in-our-head’ that exists when we’re seven, anyway.
Staring at his shoes, he keeps walking — only looking up to identify the paltry landmarks he remembers from the everyday ride in the auto. A temple here, a pile of rubbish there. Of what the town folks thought of a 7-year-old walking all alone in the streets — his consciousness was too underdeveloped to think about. Or maybe no one noticed.
After crossing a few busy roads, he turns down to a smaller lane. Much less busy, dotted with cows and parked cars that look familiar to him.
His home lane.
He starts to see clearly and lifts his head up for the first time since he’s left his school.
2:35 p.m.
A few buildings down, a worried mother is standing on the balcony of her second-floor flat. Her husband is at work, and the elder child, who cycles to and from school, is already home. Mukesh bhai was supposed to pick up the younger one from school in his auto as usual.
She wonders what happened. It was 30 minutes past his daily time. She stares longingly at the road below and notices a tiny figure approaching.
All white uniform, a maroon water bottle and a matching maroon bag almost as big as him. It is the child! What is he doing walking home all alone?
She rushes down to see him.
He is so relieved to see his mother. As she comes out of the apartment lift to hug him, his chest feels lighter and he smiles.
‘Beta, what happened?’’
‘Mumma, Mukesh bhai did not come. I waited for so long. No one came for me.’
‘Did you walk all the way from school? Alone?’
‘Yes, all alone.’
‘Oh, mera bachha. How did you know the way — ’
‘ — I just kept walking. I don’t know. I didn’t know what to do.’
Mother is furious.
‘That school has some explaining to do! Sending a kid all alone, this far, walking by himself. I’ll give your teachers a good talking to. Did you ask someone for help when Mukesh bhai didn’t come?’
The kid is silent. She holds his face up.
‘What happened, beta? Did you ask for help?’
‘I-I did not know I could do that. I-I-just walked.’
Silence.
‘No worries. Come, eat now. Your lunch is getting cold. You must be hungry after walking so much.’ She kisses his forehead and walks him upstairs.
‘And what happened to your nose? Have you been fighting again?…..’
20 Years Later
It is a bright, wintry day in the city — one of those days when the pollution doesn’t block the sun, the coffee is fresh, and you don’t find any traffic on your commute.
‘You take what you can get, really’, she says, acknowledging the serendipity.
Sunlight streams through Monstera plants around the small, cosy space of a cafe.
‘Agreed. Big city beggars can’t be choosers’, he replies. They sit at a worn, white table as the light rejoices around them in a variety of motifs.
She notices how the light playfully flatters his face and extends all the way to their legs, intertwined in their own pattern below the table.
She tugs on his legs. ‘I’m still waiting for you to say something’.
‘About what? It’s all good, I’m okay!’
‘C’mon. You can talk to me, I’m your girlfriend. You take all the worries of the world on yourse— ’
‘ — those are my problems; I can deal with them.’
‘I didn’t say you can’t deal with them’, she carries on as if almost anticipating the objection, ‘I’m just saying you don’t have to do it alone.’
‘Ugh.’
Their silence is punctuated by the huffs and puffs of the expensive coffee machine on the counter. Its constant workings result in a pleasant, brewed-coffee-and-air-freshener “cafe” smell.
‘It’s okay to be scared.’
‘I’m not scared of anything. Everything I’ve learnt, everything I’ve done, I’ve done on my own.’
‘But you can still ask for help, no?’
He knows she is right. This was why he loved her. She was insistent, relentlessly ploughing on in the face of all the resistance he threw while opening up emotionally.
‘Do you believe people can change?’
‘What do you mean?’, she sounds surprised by this question.
‘Well. Take me as an example. I am a responsible adult. My pre-frontal cortex is now fully developed. I pay my taxes. I think about my life and ask an existential question or two from time to time.
I’m growing older, my world continues to get bigger. In every external aspect, I have grown and matured. But when my vision tunnels, the only way through that I know is by focusing on the next step.’
He stops. She knows it is one of those silences that leads up to a more significant, metaphorical point. She knows he has thought a lot about this.
‘And?’
‘Do you know about Mukesh bhai? He was the autowallah who used to pick up me from school, and one day he didn’t….’
