Of Mothers and Names

The boy didn't know his name. To be fair, he had a number of epithets to his credit - The traffic policeman who monitored the junction where the boy sometimes begged referred to him as "that little ****." The sisters at the convent who had tried, briefly, to reform him, had thrown up their hands in exasperation with this "satanic imp." The shopkeeper with whom he had been apprenticed, before he was caught, red handed, secreting away a packet of Good Day biscuits, had called him "Shaitan." But on reflection, the boy decided none of these grand sounding titles really served as a name.
To the best of his knowledge, he didn't have one, he informed the little girl with pigtails at the park.
He had spied her from across the street, playing by herself on the see-saw in the children's corner. Intrigued, he had crept closer, fascinated by the shiny spectacles perched on her little nose. He hadn't seen a child, so young, wearing spectacles, and had never discovered the magical purpose these gleaming, transparent pieces of glass, glinting and sparkling in the morning light, served.
The little girl had tossed her pigtails proudly, and had informed him that her brand-new spectacles were on account of her weak eyesight. She told him this, as if it was an honor conferred upon her for some outstanding, meritorious deed.
The boy was indeed awed. The little girl, struck by such admiration in a child older than her, had invited him to play with her. But before he could take the opposite seat in the see-saw, she had asked his name.
She was astonished, when he shrugged his shoulders and told her he didn't have one.
How could that be? She exclaimed. How could one not have a name?
The boy scratched his head, and shrugged again.
We...ellll, she had lisped, in a condescending tone, she had a name. And was extremely proud of it - "Natasha Mehra. "It's spelt - N-A-T-S-A" she haughtily informed the boy, having just learned to spell her whole name. She frowned at the end, something wasn't quite right - had she spelled her name properly?
But the boy didn't realize her mistake, not knowing how to spell himself. He was far too occupied pondering the significance of having a name, moreover - having a name that one could spell.
Unimagined vistas were opening up before him.

But the little girl had grown impatient. Folding her chubby arms across her chest, she had told him that she didn't think it was possible to play with someone who had no name.
For the first time in his short life, the boy felt an intense sense of loss. It squeezed his chest, hammered at his ribs, twisted in his stomach. He was different, and being different meant that this little girl, with her pigtails, glasses and pink frock, wouldn't play with him.
He started to argue, but suddenly, a grown-up intruded on the scene - a large, matronly woman, with greying hair, a number of chins, and a bosom that merged with her large stomach.
"Jannooo," the woman had called shrilly, "Jannooo, come here at once! What are you doing there talking to that dirty ruffian? Come here!"
The woman had come closer, and glared fiercely at the boy. "You," she said, stabbing a finger in his direction, "go away now! You shouldn't be here, little beggar boys aren't supposed to be here! Go away, or I'll call the police."
The park was a public park, and the police couldn't do much to the boy for frequenting it, but these were not points that he wished to raise. He had been yelled at before, countless times - but for the first time, the boy felt hurt, sad and angry.
Still fuming, the woman had led little Natasha Mehra away. Natasha, pulled away, had waved bye.
He had burst into tears then.

Later that evening, perched under a flyover, he struggled to come to terms with all the questions and feelings the encounter in the park had incited. The traffic policeman, coming on duty, had noticed him. "Why you little *****, I've told you not to come here again! Go away now!"
The boy had raised his tear-stained face, and suddenly the policeman was at a loss for words.
"What's wrong?" the policeman asked gruffly.
The boy asked, "What's a name?"
The traffic policeman felt old and weary, all of a sudden. Was it part of his job to explain to a little beggar boy, what a name was?
He struggled for words. "A name is....everyone has a name. It's given to you when you're born, so that people can tell who you are...call you...." he gave up then. "Don't you have a name?"
The boy shook his head.
"Didn't your mother give you a name?"
The boy shook his head again. "I didn't have a mother. At least...." he frowned, suddenly, because he knew this much - everyone, every child had a mother, every child came from a mother. "I don't know her....can't remember her."
The policeman had sighed, and then moved away, leaving the boy alone with his thoughts. The boy chewed his lip, as he tried to remember another time - a time when he was not stealing, or begging or being chased.
He couldn't remember life being any different.
There were holes in his life - the absence of a name, of a mother, of memories. And now there was a hole inside him too, a growing emptiness.
He had always been alone, but for the first time, he felt alone.

He cried himself to sleep that night, under the flyover, as cars and motorcycles whizzed past.

The next morning, he was determined to make a change.
He picked a name.
For a while, he called himself "Company." He had crept into a cinema, stealthily, when Ram Gopal's masterpiece was playing, and swept away by the film, had christened himself "Company." But the other children, who frequented the junction under the flyover, had scoffed at his choice.
"Company isn't a name," said Raju, the blind beggar boy who could, in truth, see very well. "It's a thing. It's not a proper name."
Then what is a proper name, Company had asked.
Padma, the ten year old magazine seller, replied - "Salman, Dino, John, Saif, Vivek, Shahrukh.." reciting the familar littany of film stars, figuring on the covers of the magazines she hawked during redlights.
Company then, after careful consideration, selected "Amitabh" as his name, after his favourite filmstar. For a while, he did imitations of the Big B's husky voice, and donned the sunglasses that Amitabh had sported in AKs, which he procured, through questionable means, from the shop window of G B Opticians.
Amitabh liked to tell people that one day, he too wanted to be a filmstar. And Amitabh felt, for the time being at least, a new name warranted a new profession, a new start in life. He started scalping tickets at the local cinema.
Occasionally, during the crush of people queing for a sold-out show on the weekend, Amitabh would dip his light, quick fingers into the pockets of unsuspecting cinema-goers, and emerge from the crush clutching a wallet, a purse, a few loose notes.
It was a step up from begging at traffic lights.

Years passed. Amitabh became Jai, then Abhishek, then Mustapha, Raja, Ismail. Then Thomas. He was a tea boy, a gangster, a blind beggar, a pimp and a paan-seller.
Now, he is Karan, a taxi driver who lives in a one-room flat with Rosie, a former dance-bar girl.
But that hole remains, inside him, threatening to swallow him.
Every night, he is visited by the same dream that's haunted him from the time he first learned of mother and names. He dreams of a tall, exquisitely beautiful woman, so beautiful that it hurts too look at her. Walking away from him, the white pallu of her sari fluttering.
She turns to look at him, opens her arms and smiles.
Her lips part, she is on the verge of calling to him.
But before he hears the name on her lips, he awakens, always. He feels his heart squeeze, his veings constrict, hears his own breathless panting echo around the small, one-room apartment.
He curses, turns to the other side, and slides into into a nameless, dreamless sleep.

MITOSIS

It's screaming inside me. My heart. It's splitting into two. Where there was one heartbeat, there are now two. I feel flesh wrench from flesh, muscle tear, bone divide.

When it is over, I see with two pairs of eyes. There are two tongues, two noses, four ears. It's too much for my brain to handle. I see double, feel double. My bodies crash into each other. There are four sets of hands, twenty fingers to manipulate. I move my right feet to take a step forward, but I trip and fall over myself.

Again and Again.

It's a battle to master two bodies. My mind is buzzing always. What do I call myself? Sam 1 and 2? Who came first? Which body, which mind takes priority?

And then there is desire. Sam 2 is hungry but Sam 1 wants to sleep. To be awake and yet asleep? To eat and to not eat? To walk and to sit?

Contradictions.

I pick up things with the wrong hand. I tie my shoe laces wrong. I put the wrong shoes on the wrong feet. I eat with the wrong hands. My sari pallu falls on the wrong side. The fork ends up in my right hand, and the knife in the left. Across the table my mirror image smiles at me, grasping the right implements in each hand.

Wrong, wrong. Wrong.

I read my watch wrong. It's 11:40. I rush to a meeting scheduled for 12, hoping that I won't be late. But I land up five hours late. It's actually 5:10.

I want to sleep. But I can't sleep. My dreams are brief, my naps fitful. There's always one brain awake, buzzing, while the other sleeps. I watch over my own dreams, I curb my own desires, I wake myself before a nightmare seizes me.

A shadow. A mirror.

I know my features better than I have ever known them. I have seen my face change. I know how others look at me. I know more about myself than I ever wanted to.

I hate myself.

Now I never dream, never sleep. I stay awake at nights. My hands twitch, uncontrollably. I'm losing control. I try to stand up, but only one leg stretches out. I can't sit. I'm never alone. I stare at myself - my other self, the shadow who bogs my dreams, my steps.

But which is me? Which me do I hate?