Life in oblivion
There they are, in the village now, ambling down the muddy track. They had called him, made an appointment; and here they were. He stands in the backyard of their mud-hut, in the twilight, scratching his scalp and throwing small pebbles far-off in the wilderness. There is a suppressed excitement in this wait. He hears their voices- inquisitive, impatient. He turns and silently goes towards the inner door, into the dark confines of their modest dwelling. He pushes it ajar, quietly, holding his breath. The view of another room, right at the end of the corridor is like a den illuminated by the deep glow of the fire. There his mother sits, rummaging through the bottles to find something for dinner. Two children, tear-stained cheeks and hungry eyes, in torn half-pants sit on the floor beside her. He looks at them, his heart pounding.
Finally, he hears the rattling. His parents come out of the interior and look at each other. Their expressions are troubled and apprehensive. "Be careful. Do not mess up" his father says. Then the man goes and opens the door and lets them in.
"We almost lost our way."- one man speaks out aloud and brings in two other men with camera. "How are you?"- enquires one of them looking at the members of the house.
"We are fine." His father murmurs to his visitors, joining both his hands, with a blank and white-faced look, as if he had just seen ghosts.
Then the visitors introduce themselves. "Namaste. I am Prabir Dey, reporter from 'Mirror of India'. They are Tarun Walia and Arjun Singh- our cameramen and assistant reporters." Pointing out to the boy Prabir says, "I guess this is Pritam."
"Yes." Pritam's father says. He gathers himself quickly and asks them to sit on the mat kept on the wooden cot. There is a calendar with the Hindu goddess- Kali's picture on it. An old, rusted trunk kept in the corner and a shelf on the wall before the pictures of deities. A comb, box of sindoor, hair oil lies cluttered on the shelf.
"Okay Pritam, could you please tell us what do you exactly remember of your previous birth?" Prabir starts interviewing him. With a thick American accent Pritam says, "Well, I was born to American parents. They were Ted Ross and Barbara Ross. We lived in New Jersey. My father was a doctor. I had no sibling."
"Since when you started thinking about this and how did you suddenly get that accent?"
"I've had strange dreams for a month now. The dreams generally revolved around glimpses of my life in New Jersey. And then I slowly started remembering all those days in my previous house. We lived in a beautiful, wooden house which had a veranda at the back. I had a room of my own, filled with toys and books. And I found out I could now speak like I used to."
"Are they still living?"
"I have no idea about that."
"If this is considered to be true what do you want to do now?"
"I don't want anything as such. If possible and if my earlier parents are living I would like to meet them once. But I want to stay with my present family in spite of the poverty and harsh life. Here our family cannot even afford to send me to high school."
"Do you go to school?"
"Yes, I passed 9th standard this year."
"Do you want to go for further study?"
"Yes I would love to study and earn and live. Now if only circumstances allow."
The interview finally ends. They all stand around him, smiling, with kind expressions. They wish him "good luck" and leave.
"Good job." says his father, patting him on the arm. "I'm sure the learned drama-master of the village gave you a good training. And I must say you are also clever to have picked up the language so well. Now this attention of the newspaper is definitely going to stand us in good stead."
Pritam creeps away into a corner and wraps himself closely in a shawl. The different ways to fight against poverty bewilders him. A view of his imagined paradise called America appears before his eyes. All sense of morality and justice to him seems to be lost in the murky world of his reality.
