My umpTEENth Blog

Taking my socks off in the balcony of the fifth floor, I was taken aback by the sudden noise of a loud slap. It was the third floor of the opposite apartment and what I saw transported me close to a decade-and-a-half back. A time warp had abruptly opened its doors as I saw this boy in his early teens (I assumed thirteen) being thrashed and given an earful by a lady who certainly looked like his mother. The boy who was visibly startled by the sudden public humiliation at the hands of his own folks would have no respite though. His father joined in and the poor fellow now resembled a thief caught amidst an unforgiving mob. Little sister had foreseen the storm coming and disappeared in a flash. A dull summer evening meant show-time for the housewives and kids residing in the adjacent buildings. The boy desperately tried putting his case forward in Telugu which I interpreted as “Me and my wife will avenge this insult one day”

I too had spent close to seven years in the Alcatraz prison. No matter what your crime is, the sentence is fixed at seven years of rigorous imprisonment. All these years, no matter what time of the day it is, you’d always be hungry. Hair growing on your face and stranger places still would make you look uglier. Not only would you stop looking into the mirror, you’d know that it’s your face that is to be blamed for the lack of mercy from the warden. No matter how hard you’d try, your voice wouldn’t be pleasant or soothing. A strange baritone emanating from a petite thirteen year old body would raise suspicions and result in more thrashing. You’d look at the taller inmates and envy them. “I am sure they are spared of all the beatings. They’re tall. They look like men” – you’d wonder. Jars of Horlicks and Complan would do no magic trick as you’d spend all of it in carrying the bags full of bricks and stones to and fro each day.

Like in any jail, being a prisoner means you’d have no identity of your own. Hair would be cut short and neatly combed with a clear LOC (read partition) in between having no disputes. Being an ugly duckling, you’d be ashamed in front of the opposite sex of the same age. Strangely though, they’d look gorgeous and blossoming out showing no signs of prison-sickness. However your lack of confidence would mean you’d be reading the floor mostly, and hence missing out on the beauty that should have been so desperately appreciated. Each day the wardens would parade you in front of their friends who’d invariably ask you the same question each time. “What do you intend to do once free?” “The day I am free, you better watch out!!” you’d think, but you wouldn’t have an answer. Because each morning you’d wake up with a different dream – a cricketer one day, a software engineer the second, a musician some day and an adventurer again. But more practically, each morning you’d also wake up with the prayers “god no pimples today.”

The crowd meanwhile had dispersed at the culmination of the climax scene. Poor dark boy with a thin layer of moustache had wiped his tears. Perhaps a man had just been born out of the ashes. Perhaps he had made a note of every single onlooker who had laughed at his misfortune today. Too late for my explanations…