Coming out of a choking, narrow lane, with walls covered in inch thick dirt and the stench of garbage in the air, Ram, a boy of barely thirteen, commenced his day going around and selling ‘chai, garam, chai’ (hot tea) in his cracking puberty voice. His vest, sweaty, covered in what looked like a million holes was his only piece of clothing apart from a purple shirt that he had brought from home. His vest rightly showed the wears and tears it had experienced in the past month. The big and loose shorts he was wearing was a hand me down from his employer. His employer ran a small chai stall. Making tea was what his family has always done and it is the only skill he can pass down to his son when he comes of age.
Ram sells his employer’s tea to the working class of Mumbai, found hurrying to their 9-5 jobs in metros and local trains. Ram tries to accommodate himself in the rush of their mundane lives. The tired and overworked people often succumb to that sweet smell of tea and the pause button to life that it offers. This is enough to put a smile on Ram’s face who hurriedly puts the change in his pockets and gives the customer a cup of heaven.
Ram wasn’t always like this, working his ass off to barely survive. In fact, he was far from home. His home was in the middle of vast stretches of wheat plantations that his father managed. His home was one of the few brick houses in his village, nay, small town as he used to proudly proclaim when people asked him which poverty-stricken village he escaped from.
They weren’t poor, as far as he knew. Everyone around him had exactly what he had. He used to spend his time chasing dogs and climbing trees, not serving hot beverages to thousands in the financial capital of India. His father made him go to school, not to study (what use are the alphabets to a farmer), but because the government would provide Ram with two meals a day while he slaved in the fields to keep his family alive for these weren’t the golden times for farmers.
Like every other boy, Ram, too had his head in the clouds. He grew up watching the mega stars of Bollywood and used to mimic them in front of the small, black and white television set. His family applauded but they knew too well his talent would never leave this place. Nevertheless, he dreamt of the luxurious life of the elite so much so that his father had to put a stop to it, giving him a hard dose of reality. A farmer’s son will grow up to be a farmer’s son. So he should get in line and start learning the art of agriculture.
He rebelled. Blamed his parents for the poor life they had gifted him where he’ll live and die in this shit hole and world would be devoid of yet another Shah Rukh Khan (the King of Bollywood who came to Mumbai with almost nothing and made it big). His mother tried to calm him down, his father gave him a death stare and his brothers tried to knock some sense into him. But Ram had already made his mind.
He stole some of his father’s hard-earned money, packed a new purple shirt and got on the only bus that drove through his village. His was grinning, and grinding his teeth thinking of all the money he’ll make when he reached Mumbai. That’ll show his parents. Of course, he won’t stay angry at them for long but they’ll have to apologize to him if they wanted to ride his limousine and live in his 20 acre villa. Big city equals big opportunities was his mindset.
It wasn’t long after he reached Mumbai, with almost nothing, that he realized the double standards of the city of dreams and it was not pretty. He was just a speck of dust in this city of millions. He tried to plead his case but no-one had the time to listen. It was now dawning on him that he could never go back, to his mother’s arms, his father’s house, his village.
After days of sleeping in the streets, begging, sometimes stealing, he got a job as a tea-seller boy at a small stall. His kind employer gave him a small space beside his house to sleep at night. After almost a month, he gave up his dream of becoming the King of Bollywood. He settled for the roof above his head and the meal he could eat after a day of hard labour. Along with his purple shirt, he locked away his dreams forever.
This isn’t a unique story. This is the story of thousands of young boys who flood big cities with big dreams everyday. Some of these boys, accept their fate and work puny jobs while others fall of starvation. Some even get involved in shady business. If only someone had told them that for every man that succeeded, there were hundreds that failed. If only he hadn’t foolishly rebelled.
Prose And Poetry 