Don't Strangulate the Child

Of late, something strange has been happening to me. At first, I was intrigued by it, but as it continued, doubts and confusion started to set in. It's something I can't easily explain, something others might scoff at or dismiss as a figment of my imagination. They might even question my mental balance, suggesting I visit a psychiatrist. Yet, if I were to narrate how an unknown child has been appearing before me, time and time again, their judgment would only deepen. No, this child isn't a ghost or a lost soul. Nor is he a child separated from his parents. He is innocent, yes, but there's an indescribable quality about him that fills me with restlessness and unease. Whenever I manage to steal a moment of respite from my hectic and stressful life, hoping to relax, he materializes out of thin air. I'm left wondering how he finds me wherever I am and who informs him of my whereabouts. His forlorn gaze pierces through me, tears cascading down his cheeks. The weight of melancholy he carries infects me, plunging me into a pit of wretchedness.

Somehow, he has learned my name and doesn't hesitate to address me with it, despite the significant age gap between us. I can't help but feel that he deserves a modicum of respect. Once he starts speaking, he doesn't stop until his monologue is complete. He speaks of missing the simple but real joys and pleasures of life, trapped in a sense of unbearable tedium. The weight of his words, far too profound for a child, perplexes me. I shake my head and blink rapidly, attempting to discern whether I'm truly awake. Yet, despite my confusion, I'm eager to understand him, to fathom the reasons behind his profound sadness. I empathize with the sorrow etched upon his face.

"Do you know, Chandan, what happened one day in my school?" he asks me, brimming with enthusiasm before continuing without waiting for a response.

"Our Sanskrit teacher stood at the front of the class, droning on about grammar in a way that made no sense to me. A few of us grew restless and began folding paper planes, launching them across the room while the teacher's back was turned. In a twist of ill fortune, my paper plane deviated from its intended course, hurtling rapidly until it collided with the bald pate of our old teacher, its pointed nose hitting its mark with precision.

Bang! In a fit of anger, the teacher swiftly turned around, caught hold of one child, and raised his hand to deliver a solid, painful slap. The poor child trembled with fear, wetting his pants in that moment of terror, and with a trembling finger, he pointed at me to deflect the impending assault. The enraged teacher charged at me, brandishing his cane.

The mere thought of enduring the lashes from his infamous cane, which would leave near-indelible marks on my body for weeks, filled me with dread. I swiftly grabbed my bag, leaped over the desk with lightning speed, evading the charging villain and his dreadful cane. I bolted out of the classroom and the school, disappearing for three consecutive days."

As he narrates the comical incident, the child succumbs to uncontrollable laughter. Rolling on the ground, clapping his hands, he infects me with his infectious mirth. But as quickly as the laughter comes, it dissipates, leaving him melancholic once again, with wet eyes and a dejected countenance.

"Oh God, not again," I mutter.

"Life was so beautiful in those days," he continues, his voice tinged with sorrow. "But now, Chandan, it's all drowned in an ocean of worries, stress, and fear of the unknown. No more frolicking or gamboling in grassy fields, no more carefree holidays. I've almost forgotten how it feels to breathe in the fresh air in the lap of Mother Nature. There is no longer any free time like before."

Just then, my mobile phone begins to blare its dreaded ringtone. Inevitably, my weekend peace is shattered by that single call. I hastily prepare myself for an urgent meeting arranged by my boss. Suddenly, I remember the child and feel a pang of guilt for leaving him alone. I rush back to my bedroom, but he is gone.

The next weekend arrives before I can even realize it. Time flies at the speed of light these days. My job has consumed my life, my mind. Even the few hours I manage to sleep are not spared. Impatient customers, plotting colleagues, and the boss's constant threats haunt me even in my nightmares.

Hoping to steal some much-needed rest, I lie down on my bed after lunch, closing my eyes. And just like that, out of nowhere, the child appears again, wearing the all-too-familiar look of desolation. Before I can utter a word, he pleads with me through gestures, urging me to remain silent and listen. I obey, compelled by his innocence.

"Chandan, let me tell you about an incident from my primary school days," he begins, his voice faint yet laden with emotion. "Our class teacher stepped out of the room for a moment, leaving us with an assignment and strict instructions to remain silent. Dire consequences awaited anyone who dared to disobey.

For a few minutes, we were engrossed in the assignment. Then, my friend sitting next to me nudged me with his elbow, drawing my attention to the school gate. A pale-looking cow had wandered lazily through the half-open gate, attracted by the fresh shoots of grass within our school grounds.

We exchanged glances, smiles forming on our faces as we decided to chase the intruder away, intending to have a bit of fun. Silently, we rose from our seats, tiptoed out of the classroom, and dashed toward the school garden. We seized the cow's tail as she munched contentedly, pulling with all our might. Sensing trouble, the poor creature attempted to escape, moving forward. But we refused to yield, gripping her tail tightly with both hands.

A tug of war ensued. Soon, the rest of the class gathered near the window, reveling in the spectacle. Some giggled uncontrollably, while others encouraged us in hushed voices. This went on for a couple of minutes until a sudden twist transformed the game. Our ears throbbed with intense pain as someone joined the fray, seizing us forcefully by our ears.

Undeterred, we clung stubbornly to the cow's tail, even as our classmates erupted in boisterous laughter. A 'three in one' tug of war unfolded before their eyes, involving our class teacher, us, and the bewildered bovine. Needless to say, it came to an abrupt end. The cow bolted from the school grounds, desperate for safety, while we were made to kneel on the veranda for a full fifteen minutes, clutching our already reddened, warm ears. Though they throbbed with pain, the experience was exhilarating!"

The child continues, his voice heavy with longing, "Sadly, such small but beautiful moments are absent from my life now." He sighs, "They exist only as fading memories, slipping away rapidly as I no longer have the time to reminisce.

He begins to weep inconsolably, and I can't help but feel sorry for his plight. But what can I do? I struggle to comprehend how a young child can speak of problems and issues that seem more fitting for an adult. Could it be possible that he is suffering from some form of early-age depression?

My weary eyelids begin to droop, surrendering to the embrace of a much-needed nap. But within seconds, I'm jolted back to consciousness by the child's whimpering.

"Life is a mirage, Chandan," he exclaims, his voice choked with emotion. "As a progressive-minded, ambitious generation, we continually raise the bar, escalating our expectations each time we achieve a goal, particularly in matters of financial security and comfort. We grow increasingly insecure upon reaching our previously set targets. And so, we toil even harder, striving for the next higher goal, and the next, and the next. We become prisoners of our ambitions, confining our lives within an impenetrable fortress of materialistic pursuits. We forget the simple pleasures and ultimately ruin our lives."

 

That's it! I can no longer tolerate this nonsensical talk from a child. I rise from my bed, my voice thundering at him, "What on earth are you talking about? Do you even understand the meaning of this philosophical jargon and the weighty dialogues you spew?"

"You are just a child, yet to witness the real world. A child like you spends their days reveling in the joys of life. The only so-called stress you face revolves around studying and taking exams. It's people like me, not children like you, who bear the burdens of life, striving for countless achievements, both professionally and personally. Without money, even survival becomes a challenge, let alone a comfortable life. We are pressured by friends, relatives, and society to maintain certain standards, which demand even more money."

I pause, taking a breath, my frustration lacing my words. "My life is completely messed up, not yours. Please, stop torturing me. I don't want to see you anymore. Don't come to me ever again. I beg you, with folded hands."

His face pales as I scold him angrily, tears streaming down his cheeks. His lips tremble, and with a faint voice choked by emotions, he finally manages to speak, "Are you still unable to recognize me, Chandan? Look at me closely. I am none other than 'the child in you,' the little child who resides in the heart of every adult person!"

His plea pierces my heart, and a pang of guilt washes over me. "Have mercy on me," he continues. "Let me savor the simple joys and pleasures of life from time to time. Allow me to dance in the rain, relive the experiences of your childhood. Let me go backpacking to the Himalayas or venture into the deserts of Jaisalmer, just as you did in your college days. Grant me some free time for a game of football with your friends, a cherished dream you often hold. I implore you, do not suffocate me, the innocent and pure child within you. Let me live, please!"