Memoirs of an Anonymous Indian

I sat in my favorite armchair, in the pink of my life, as my thoughts go back to my childhood and adolescent days.  In a caste-ridden society like ours, the quality of existence in the remote towns and villages, depends essentially on the caste of the family where a person is born.  Opportunities are usually available to those occupying  the higher echelons of the caste system.  For those unfortunate beings belonging to the lowest rung,  existence often becomes a nightmare. Humiliation and denials become a byword in their passage through life.

I was born in a sleepy fishing village close to the sea.  My father was a fisherman and went out to the sea daily,  to make his catch.  He had an old fishing trawler, which threatened to disintegrate anytime, but continued to serve my father like a faithful wife, ‘till death do us apart’.  My mother did all the household chores and also took care of the newborn “gifts of God” who came to our family at regular intervals.  My father maintained that the family should grow to keep the family business alive.  My mother also  worked as a domestic help in the house of the headmaster in the neighboring village school. He lived about two kilometers away. In this way she augmented the meager family income and secretly buried the extra money in an earthen pot in the corner of our mud hut.

My childhood was spent in bliss and in harmony with nature.  In the morning all the children in the village gathered on the beach to make sand castles.  Soon a large wave would come and sweep it away.  In the afternoon we would watch the sea gulls flying majestically in the clear blue sky, surveying the ground below for fish, dead or alive.  I often wondered why God did not give us wings, as well.  In the evening   as the men arrived in their boats, the women rushed out to help unload the fish cargo and secure the boats at a safe place.  The men would then head towards the local pub to drown their sorrows with glasses of

country-liquor, till late night.  My father would return home well after dark,  in a drunken state and target his abuses to almost everything under the sun.  My mother received him at the door and got the brunt of the abuses, which were often converted into physical violence.  She would then threaten to leave him,

only to be back at the door-step  next morning for handing over the afternoon lunch.

Life followed this regular routine till one afternoon my mother came rushing to the beach in search of me.  She was very excited and informed me that the headmaster of the village school had agreed to admit me in the school.  She had purchased a new short and shirt for me, along with a slate and chalk, with her

secret money. In the night when this subject was broached, my father was furious and declared emphatically, “Our forefathers were fishermen, and my son shall follow the same profession.  Education has no place in our society.”  My mother was equally adamant this time. She said in a tone of finality that if he did not agree to send me to school she would leave him forever, along with me.  This did the trick and he reluctantly agreed to let my mother have her ways, provided he had no responsibility in my schooling.

On the first day of school my mother dressed me as well as she could and took me to the headmaster. He asked me a few questions, which my mother had rehearsed me to answer.  He apparently looked pleased and directed me to my classroom.  Meanwhile, the news had spread that a fisherman’s son is going to be admitted.  As I entered the classroom, the other boys pretended to put a hand across their noses.  Then one boy asked loudly, “Can you get the smell of stinking fish?”  The boys burst into a peel of laughter.  Soon the teacher entered and asked me to sit in one corner of the room, away from the other boys.  He began teaching but ignored me completely.  Apparently, I did not exist for him.

At the end of the period he stared at me sternly through his circular spectacles and growled, “Did you understand anything? Education is not like catching fish. It requires brains.”  After saying this he walked out briskly, cursing aloud to himself.

During the lunch interval I went to the tube-well to quench my thirst, but was rebuffed by the watchman saying that I would pollute the water and render it unfit for drinking.  I was directed to go to the well outside the school, from where people of my caste drank water.  I felt embarrassed and angry on my mother for sending me to this miserable “hell”.  I never had such experiences in my village, I reminisced.

I narrated all these events to my mother and cried.  I begged her not to  send me to school any more.  She listened with tears in her eyes and told me, “Son, we were treated like this for centuries and shall continue to be treated in the same way, if we are not educated.  You should ignore what they say and work hard in your studies to prove them wrong.  This is our only salvation.”  

This was the first time I realized the meaning of caste and how it differentiates one man from another.  I found solace and strength in my mother’s words and decided to fulfill her dreams.  The year rolled by and my tolerance to the snide remarks of my classmates increased day by day, as I discovered new interest in my studies.  The time came for the examinations, in which my performance was good enough to be promoted  to the  next class.   One-by-one I passed the four classes that the village school could boast of, with a performance bordering on excellence.  The headmaster was very pleased and strongly recommended me to the higher school in town.

My mother pawned her gold bangles, the only pair she had, with the local money-lender.  She bought my clothes, shoes and other items necessary for my stay in the town.  She heard from the local grocer, who used to go frequently to town, that there is a hostel for the boys coming from under-privileged families.

She took me to the manager of the hostel requesting a place for me. He demanded to see the relevant certificates, which we did not have with us.  After considerable pleading, he agreed to keep me as a servant for doing the daily chores, without any remuneration.  I was given a small, dingy room in the attic

to keep my belongings and sleep during the night.

My day began before sunrise, with the cleaning of all the utensils and the floors of the rooms.  After that, I prepared a quick meal for myself, consisting of chapattis, raw onion and a small quantity of pickles, thoughtfully included by my mother in my baggage.  The school was about two kilometers  away, which I

had to cover walking. At school my classmates and the teachers often asked me about my caste.  I was told that boys belonging to certain castes, were given free education.  Since I did not have the requisite certificates, I could not get this advantage.  I saw some boys coming from affluent families, enjoy

free-ship by producing the required documents.  In the hostel, a pile of utensils awaited my return.  After cleaning it, I used to feel very tired and would retire for a quick nap.  The light from the street lamp on the road entered my attic through a small window.  I used it for my studies.  Later in the night, when the road would become quieter, I used to take my books and sit under the street lamp till the wee hours of the morning.  This routine became a part of my life during the next six years.

My performance in the first year at school was good enough to earn me a scholarship, which helped me in purchasing books.  I would also buy small gifts for my mother and other friends in the village, when I went home on vacations.  Instantly, I became a hero, because I was the only one in the village who could

read and write.  In return I would get invited to some exotic fishy cuisine, which I greatly missed in town.  As time flew, I became due to appear in the secondary schools certificate examination.  When the results were declared, I found that  I had got distinction and topped in the district.  My headmaster was

overjoyed and presented me a watch to commemorate the event.  This watch is still ticking, even after four decades, reminding me of what perseverance and diligence can achieve.  I had no difficulty in getting admitted in the junior college from where I passed the Higher secondary schools certificate examination, with a more improved performance.  I decided to appear in the joint entrance examination for admission in the prestigious Indian Institute of Technology.

My joy knew no bounds when I found that I had been ranked within the first thirty students in the entrance examination.  “I would now be labeled as an engineer from IIT and not by my caste,” I thought.   I got admitted in one of the IITs.  The atmosphere here was quite different from what I had experienced

in the other places.  Nobody asked me about my caste.  I shared a room with a boy belonging to a very high caste.  We even had meals together.  If ever an Utopia existed, it was here , I thought.  We all belonged to the brotherhood of Engineers and that was our only label.

One cold winter morning I was standing at the tea-stall trying to catch some warmth from the stove.  I saw a beautiful girl, alight from the auto and was struggling to keep her balance with several packages.  She was fair and athletic in appearance, with wide expressive eyes. I volunteered to help.  She accepted

my offer with a shy dimpled smile.  On the way to her house, I learnt that her name was Mini.  She was studying in the third year in computer science and that she was the only daughter of a professor.  Surprisingly, she did not ask me anything about myself except my name, branch and the year.   After this, I met Mini several times in the department, library or the canteen.  Each time she appeared more beautiful than on the previous occasion.  We talked about the subject, teachers and sometimes about our friends.  One day she confided to me that her PC at home was giving her problems, as a result of which she is unable to complete her project assignments.  Again I volunteered to help, since I was in the final year in computer science and supposedly more knowledgeable than her.

On my way back to the hostel, I pondered about the “silliness” of my offer.  If I go to her house, her parents  would definitely want to know about my family and their occupation.  I knew the consequences of my true replies. I was told Mini and her family belonged to a very high caste.  By now I had developed a deep liking for Mini and could not bear losing her.  I thought about the sand castles I built in my childhood days and how they were flattened by one large wave. I spent a restless night trying to figure out my future course of action.  In the morning I decided to follow my mother’s advice, “When in doubt leave everything to God. Remember it is He who shapes our destinies.”

I reached Mini’s house at the appointed time.  She received me at the entrance and guided me straight to her study.  I fiddled with her PC for some time and managed to locate the problem.  In another fifteen minutes it was rectified. Mini was overjoyed.  She looked admiringly at me and thanked me profusely.  She then invited me to the sitting room to meet her parents.  This was the moment I was dreading.  I began praying to God that everything should turn out to be fine.  Mini called her parents and began by extolling my virtues in locating faults in the PC and repairing them.  It was only afterwards that she “introduced” me.  By now her parents appeared quite enamored by my  expertise  and started quizzing

me about  computer faults.  A good forty minutes later I managed to excuse myself on the pretext of being late.  Any further delay, I mused, would be risking those dreaded questions.

Mini and I drew closer to each other as days passed.  I was a frequent visitor to her house and was often invited for dinner.  Her parents never asked me any questions about my family, which emboldened me to increase the frequency of my visits.  I do not know if Mini was responsible for it.  I passed the final year

with distinction and easily got admission in a prestigious college in U.S.A.  Mini followed me a year later.  We were married four years later and continue to remain a “made-for-each-other” couple, even after thirty long years.  I have now settled down in a modest bungalow facing the sea.  As I look out through the window of my study, at the azure blue expanse of the sea, I reflect upon its immense generosity.  Rivers originating from different mountains finally flow into the sea which draws it to its bosom, never asking where they came from.   Why should men differentiate themselves from each other on the basis of their origins, when they are all created by the same God !

P.S.  This article is a slightly modified version of an article i had published last year in 

        gather.    It  is based on a real life story of a person who has been deceased many years ago.