A Piece of Paper

I look upon it – a wrinkled piece of paper, six by six inches, curled up at its edges, tinged yellow with the passage of time, with pin holes as a result of being fed by some paper-loving insect, very rough to touch as if it would tear if I held it firmly and smelled of ancient paper. A piece of paper indeed that certifies my birth, a valuable proof to the rest of the world that I was born on 15th December, 1970. Forty years ago in a state hospital as has been verified by Dr S Sharma in a scribbled hand writing that looks like a carelessly jotted approval.

Indeed, approval it was of my being, of my breathing and of my crying as a mark of my arrival into this world full of papery formalities. It was a paper of significance to me, my birth certificate.

The summer of 1975, I was trudging back home from school with a green, thickish, smooth and neat piece of paper that our class teacher gave to each one of us during our last period instructing us to escort it safely home. The touch of crispiness and the smell of the new paper made me joyous for a while.

I set off for my home, a walk twenty minutes away in a childish dabbling manner. Dusty it was with no signs of rain, the road was dirty and it was not properly kept. The paper kept dangling in my left hand while my right hand stroked the muddy side wall making a long line as my fingers pressed on the thick layer of dirt that enveloped the wall. I changed my hand and now could see the clean, green, thickish piece of paper had new land marks – a few blots and blemishes courtesy my hand that had lovingly stroked the dirty wall.

I loved the creaky sound as I pressed the paper on to the cemented wall and walked. Smooth, it was in the past, now the green paper had bruises and scars, tears and wounds if you could call them so. The paper given to me by the teacher an hour ago in a brand new face was then a rugged, detestable piece of object looking years older than its real age of an hour.

It started raining. I hurried into a shelter while my hand ventured out in anticipation for the rain that kept pouring. My palm was cusped and it acted as a reservoir for water. After a while it was the turn of another hand and with it the green, thickish paper kept changing the two wet hands adding wrinkles to it and the sign-penned hand writing was now smeared, perhaps purified in rain water – I was pleased.

The door was barged open and I got into my house. Mother came out and asked me, ‘Babu, what is that green paper in your hand?’ I handed the paper to her. She looked at it for a while. I could see through the holes I had made in the paper, the signs of exasperation on her face. Her eyes turned bigger in rage till one of her hands made an impact on my cheeks with a thud. I saw stars. I could not comprehend the reason behind her anger for a while and came to know of the cause only later when she complained to dad about what I had done to my green, thickish report card of the exam during my twenty-minute sojourn to home. Father gave a look of confusion, not knowing whether to laugh or to add a few thuds on my cheeks. For me it was no more than a piece of paper. A lesson learnt – report cards need to be escorted safely back home, at least the slap reminds me so.

August 1980, after having a youthful game of football I came back to home. The radio was on and it talked of some Ronald Reagan visiting some where in the world. Why would I care? I cared for the tasty mutton being cooked in the kitchen and the smell was one of invitation, perhaps rice would go in short supply or maybe not. After all, we were reasonably well-fed. As I guided my play car through the rough terrains of the carpet on the floor, I came across a thin paper, about 3 inches by 1.5 inches, slightly yellowish and was folded twice.

‘What is this Maa?’ I enquired.

‘Keep it safely babu. It is the receipt of your school bill that I paid this afternoon,’ mom replied.

Before mom could react, I had torn the so-called receipt into two and had started exclaiming what use this bloody piece of paper would be when I felt my long hair being pulled in a fist of fury of my mom, carefully picking the torn receipt out of my hand.

Having been the recipient of two smacks on my well-trained back, I thought I would bang the door, lock from inside and skip supper altogether. Albeit the smell of mutton coming from the kitchen made me swallow my ego and sat on the floor remorselessly gazing at the torn receipt.

Dinner was ready and I acted as if I would not join for a while before greed got the better of me and joined every one on the table only to discover that mom, in the episode of fury, had made a perfect mutton curry. Only the salt was missing. I felt it would have been better had I banged the door instead.

The next month, the school fees came in again. The bill claimed that the earlier dues had not been cleared either. Mom searched into the cupboard and took the torn receipt out, glued it in transparent tape and produced it as a proof to the accountant. Bemused, upon being shown a receipt as a proof of paid bills, that too taped and mended like a plastered man with fractured limbs, the accountant reluctantly accepted it and kept it for evidence. I learnt another lesson that day – the receipts are to be kept safely. My well-trained back agreed.

January 1987, it was indeed a harsh winter. My cheeks had cracked at the harshness of this cold onslaught. I went to a photo studio for a photograph to be taken, donning a Nepali cap. It was for my citizenship card. I ventured into the District Administration Office. I was scared when I saw the old, badly-kept building. It looked as if a strong gush of wind would make it fall. I risked my life and promised myself I would run out as soon as the work was done. Deep inside I prayed to the lord to make the so-called building stand erect till I was in there.

I made the application. The officer-in-charge, who was more accustomed to collecting hundred rupee notes than signing the applications complained that the tickets that I had pasted in the form should have been pasted a little lower. He mocked me. Sensing some calamitous gloom, my uncle who was accompanying me made an offer of 50 rupees and the officer found no more faults on the application. He suddenly became polite and asked us to come back in 3 days time for collection.

Three days later, after having queued and risked my life again, I was made a proud owner of another piece of paper, sized about 1.5 inches by 2 inches, with my Nepali cap-clad picture on it as a proof of my being the citizen of the nation. This tiny piece of paper would entail my destiny. It was the citizenship certificate, a piece of paper indeed. Another valuable lesson learnt – a piece of paper certifies your nationality.

February 14, 2001 – the first Valentine’s Day after I got married. At office I kept thinking of returning home to my wife to a warm, lovely, sensuous reception. During shifts of work I imagined how we would indulge in various things and whispering sweet nothings into each other’s ears. On my way back home, I dropped into a florist’s shop to pick an array of flowers of her choice. I topped that up with some rich brand of chocolates and smiled at the florist thinking of how my wife of 3 months would have decorated the room for us to have a romantic rendezvous. Later in the evening we had planned for some dining out in a romantic restaurant that played the best love ghazals. On my way home I sang ‘Into your lovely arms’ as my heart went aflutter with thoughts of the sweet romance that awaited me. I opened the door and was quite surprised at not finding her at the door to welcome the evening of romances. The lobby where we had planned to dance was not decorated either.

As I turned to the room, I saw her. She looked glum and my avid eyes sensed anger in her eyes. I glanced at the watch to see if I was late. I was ten minutes ahead of the promised time.

‘Here I come for you dear,’ I had just started exclaiming when she picked up a plastic vase with flowers. No, it was not with the sensuousness that I had desired but with a grip that was seemingly searching for its target. Before I could do any thing, thud came the sound as the vase hit my forehead with a swerve that made me see stars yet again.

‘What the hell is this?’ I shouted, about to push her back. Her hand picked up a card and thrust it into my arm, her deadly silence and flared nasal apertures directing me to see that.

‘Dear S,

Dedicated to the beautiful times we had at college. Missing you and your hugs. Happy Valentine’s Day.’

Guess Who?

The hand writing was all too familiar to me. It was sent by Maria, the girl with whom I had years of glorious romance before she chose another guy over me.

I could not comprehend why she chose to wish me on this Valentine’s Day with a message that fetched doom on my enviably perfect on-going honey moon days. Before I could utter any thing she banged the door at me and locked herself into the room.

I was left ruing the fact that pieces of paper continued to spell disaster on my life. My phobia to papers of unique appearances got a boost that day. My Valentine’s Day went diving into the sea and I cursed the piece of paper, indeed the piece of paper. Another lesson learnt that night – past romantic partners need to be notified during one’s marriage, lest doom falls like the one that I experienced on the first Valentine’s Day post marriage.

October 15, 2009 – I received my elderly uncle at the bus station. He must have been around seventy. Normally a friendly soul, he retreats into reclusive status when attacked by two of his known nemesis – piles and an enlarged prostate. Fond of narrating tales during other times, he keeps tabs on the whereabouts of all his relatives.

At home, Ramesh paid a visit during evening. We started catching up with our missed days. Uncle lent an ear to our talks pretending he was busy looking at the picture albums.

‘It has been a long time man. All thanks to facebook we have met again and here we talk!’

‘Oh yeah! In fact, I have met so many of my old friends in it. Did you see Satya’s pictures with his kids?’

‘Really? Satya is on facebook too! Would love to put him in mine’

‘Go ahead, add him man. He is a really bundle of fun.’

‘Yes, man. I remember how madly he was in love during those days with a girl who could not care any lesser about him.’

‘Life is like that man! ’

The evening was fine. We sipped some whiskey with munches. Dinner was good too. Uncle wore a curious look through out. He seemed to be lost in thoughts or perhaps he wanted to ask some thing. I sensed an inquisitive look in his eyes. Night fell on and we slept. The next morning we did some puja. After all, it was festival time.

I could still sense that uncle was deep in thoughts. Before I could ask any thing, I overheard him talking to his accomplice who had come along to help him on the way, just in case.

He was planning to buy some thing. And as I gathered what he wanted to acquire, my eyes remained open and the lips went dry for I knew it was not possible to buy that thing.

He murmured, ‘It seems to be a handy tool. I heard the boys talking about it yesterday. It is a book that has the information and pictures of your friends. On top of that you can keep adding more people info on it.’

‘Is that so?’ an incredulous voice whispered.

‘I shall ask him from where we could get one for ourselves. And we shall see every thing my son,’ the old man quipped.

‘And what is the name of the book grand pa?’

‘It is called the facebook!’ said the old fellow.

The funny bone inside me had been woken alive. I wanted to laugh. But for the fear of mocking him, I controlled myself. For the first time in my life, I would be confronting and answering questions that were not cropped up by some thing papery. In fact, this one came charging upon me for the lack of any paper. How would a village oldie know that the facebook is any thing but a book? I was thinking of all ways that are civil to explain him in layman terms when the inevitable call came.

‘Babu, I need to discuss some thing with you.’

I gulped my own saliva and muttered, ‘Yes uncle! ’ and submitted myself to some thing humorous, sensitive and perhaps uncalled for. I resigned to the fact that there was no piece of paper to save me this time around. I learnt a new lesson – names can be deceiving.