1.

First, something about the school. The first thing that comes to mind when I think of the town is the school, and then the tehsil which was almost opposite the school. Both these places come to my mind more than, and before, anything else. Perhaps because they were full of people. Full of images, sounds and space. Of which, space must be the biggest reason, because the Ramleela Garden, too, comes to mind almost instantly when I think of the town. It had a lot of space and, in a way, a lot of images. There weren’t too many people, though. Instead, there were a lot of trees. It wasn’t noisy there, as at the school or the tehsil, though the trees did make sounds. In the evening or at night, when the school and the tehsil fell silent, you could hear the sound of the trees. It is only when noise dies down, that these timeless voices can be discerned.

The main building of the school remains just as it was. It’s not as if that building was an architectural marvel and was, therefore, preserved. Nor did the school, despite its 50 years, have a history because of which the building was kept, respectfully, intact. Still, the building remains as it was – lime-washed, discolored. However, a small building has come up beside it. Which means that the number of students has increased, and this new building has been constructed to accommodate them. Also indicative of the increase is the fact that classes have, now, been divided into sections and allotted more than one room. The rooms have been marked – 1A, 1B, 2A, 2B. The question, though, is why classes 1, 2 and 3 have sections, while classes 4 and 5 do not? Why is there only one room for these classes? Could it be because, even at the threshold of a new century, even in these post-modern times, a lot of children leave, or are forced to leave, school after a while?

Our primary school’s playground has disappeared. A Government Inter-College for girls has taken its place – where they teach science as well, even though they don’t have a laboratory. But why, of all places, did they have to make it on the school playground? That ground was filled with the joy of so many children. Here, they dropped chalk and spilt ink. Here, they lost money from their pockets and tears from their eyes. Some dropped matar and chana which would take root and grow during the rains. Many had tied knots in the doob grass as a charm against the anger of adults; many had forgotten to untie them… Where will children find doob to protect them now?

The girls’ school could be seen from the playground. It seemed to be so far, then. Now, thirty years later, standing at the same place, it seems so near. Almost adjoining the ground. Why did the distance seem so great, then? Where has it disappeared now? Is it because of the Inter-College for girls? That ground was the distance to the girls’ school. But now there is no ground, just its vestiges. Or is it that, as a child, one perceives in extremes? A tall man appears extremely tall, a short man extremely short. The well that seemed bottomless in childhood, it turns out, is hardly that deep. The pond that seemed to be vast and full of water, is not.

The town’s primary school is no longer as important as it used to be. Seven or eight Montessori schools have come up, charging a monthly fee of fifty, sixty or even a hundred rupees. They have taken the shine off the primary school.

But the question that rose in my mind when I saw sections only for classes 1, 2 and 3, rises again. Eight or nine schools for primary education, but just one old middle-school and one Inter-College for further studies?

2.

There was no regular source of entertainment in the town. It was an occasional thing. The Ramleela was the biggest source of entertainment. It was sure to happen every year, around Dussehra. Other sources of entertainment were the nautanki, magic shows, puppetry, etc. The puppet shows were also held in the Ramleela Garden. But not the nautanki or the magic shows – these were staged elsewhere. Why, when the Ramleela Garden hosted everything from fairs to political gatherings to puppet shows? Was it that only events which were free to enter could be held there? Perhaps, the fences necessary for ticketed events couldn’t be erected because of the trees. Perhaps, the trees argued that everyone had a right to entertainment – even the poor and the ticketless. Whatever the reason, the nautanki and the magic shows were not held there. Nor was, the then prime-minister, Indira Gandhi’s meeting held there. Her party’s electoral symbol, at the time, was a pair of oxen and the meeting took place on the middle-school grounds. Poles had been put up all over town. The Ramleela Garden had never seen such a crowd. The nautanki could not have gathered so many people even if it were free. People had come from many nearby villages to be a part of that gathering. There were lots of children too, for some reason. Even I was there. The crowd was endless. There wasn’t space for even a sesame seed, as the saying goes. Though if one wanted to be very literal, one would say the there wasn’t space for even a chunk of jaggery. If one tossed a thousand such chunks into the air, not one would land on the ground. They’d fall on a shoulder, an arm, get lodged between two necks. Melons, of course, would not have stood a chance. Even a medium-sized potato might have faced some difficulty. I was sitting, and there were so many people taller than me in front that I could see nothing. Then, there were rumors of Indira Gandhi being four hours late. It was night and I was scared and sleepy. I wanted to go home. I stood up but there were so many people all around that my head started spinning.

Why did I go to that meeting? I understood nothing of politics or of Indira Gandhi. Had I gone there in search of entertainment? Or from a petty desire to appear more socially aware than other children? But then, isn’t trying to prove oneself better than others a form of (petty) entertainment too?

3.

Children live in god’s kingdom but do not seek refuge in god. If pushed into it by an adult or by their environment, their childhood is destroyed. You must have seen how a child who has entered, or has been forced to enter, the world of religious sermons and rituals loses his childhood. He can neither remain a child, nor become an adult.

The guardians of children working in cinema or television sometimes medicate them to stop them from growing. Brothels try to make the too-young girls forced into prostitution more womanly. It’s the same when a child lies at god’s feet. A child cowering in the shadow of god instead of playing in the open fields is a childhood becoming prey to god – tender, innocent, ignorant prey. Such a child is abandoned by his friends. And what is worse, it doesn’t affect him. His eyes do not fill with tears. Such a child will be popular among, will be respected by, the slaves of god – the adults, the elderly – but other children will turn their backs on him. They will regard him with fear and loathing, they will keep their distance.

In villages, children are part of kirtans. But kirtans to them are like qawwalis -entertainment. You often see children in villages playing around temples. Do they go there out of devotion? No, they go there because of the expanse of level ground and open sky. Because of the cleanliness – the ground is regularly swept. There might be a pond or a tank nearby. Often, there is a cemented platform. Why wouldn’t children want to come here! If adult society is god’s playground, god’s society is a playground for children. If god stopped children from playing there, would they? Would they listen if god started preaching? If god said, “Children, stop playing, look at me,” would they look? No, they would keep playing and god would have no choice but to watch them.

And the children in cities, who are seen roaming around temples for prasad and money, are they any closer to god? No, they are perhaps even further. God pushed them off the stairway to heaven and they tumbled down to the temple stairs. Begging for prasad and stealing the shoes and purses of devotees is their revenge on god for his cruelty.

It is not as if children are atheists. Only an adult can knowingly deny an established custom. And then, atheism is a philosophy. It is arrived at after grappling with complex questions of matter, cause-and-effect and so on. Children don’t have time for all that. Childhood does not challenge or deny god’s existence. An intellectual stand like atheism is not possible for children. But, despite not being an atheist or, perhaps, in spite of being some manner of believer, a child does not depend on god. This is the effrontery of childhood. This is the first, unique challenge thrown to god by the earth.

(Translated from Hindi by Rahul Soni and Giriraj Kiradoo.)