For a background info on Yuva, head on to the Yuva Prequel story.
“Such cute little things,” said
Gandhiji, munching his dhokla with one hand, “Come here Yuva, give this little
guy a scratch.”
“But you said scratching in the
public is not good manners.” replied Yuva promptly.
“Scratching yourselves in the
public is not good manners, but that rule applies only to oneself.”
“So, I can scratch others in
public?”
“No, you can’t, and you
shouldn’t. But scratching pets is okay, anywhere.”
“Bapuji, I’m not sure cats are
okay with scratching anywhere. They aren’t like dogs, besides that cat is
looking at me murderously.”
“I meant anywhere, in public or
in private, didn’t mean anywhere on the cat. No will you come give it a scratch
or not? After all, it was your pet.”
“No, I won’t, you know I
stopped loving cats, not after they behaved as if they never saw me when my
cousin came. They abandoned me and went to cuddle that cousin of mine and I’m
telling you, she’s a mean girl,” said Yuva tracing an ‘S’ on the table with his
finger, absentmindedly.
“So she’s a mean girl huh?
Well, all girls are.”
“Not all, why can’t all girls
behave like Shruthy, she’s intelligent, kind, understanding and love--”
suddenly Yuva checked himself and stopped, and continued, “loving towards
animals.” He almost came close to saying out ‘lovely’.
He wished Gandhiji would become
busy again, over few years he suddenly had found a leisure time. Not because he
wanted to but because he was forced to. The time between late afternoons to
dusk, most of his programs suffered a lack of proper attendance from the
masses, it was almost always just the ashram members attending during those
times, sitting out of compulsion and trying not to yawn too much.
Gandhiji reasoned maybe people
were sleepy during afternoons and preferred a proper siesta to his lectures. He
tried to make peace with the fact and made it his time of leisure where he
could relax. Although Yuva knew the real reason for the poor attendance, he
didn’t want to reveal, because he promised the villagers, but now he’s having
second thoughts, for more leisure to Gandhiji meant little time to him to be
with Shruthy.
---o---
The crowd struggled hard to
keep down their feverish excitement and muffled sounds came out, unable to
contain grinning, there was a gaggle of excited noises. Indians are not used to
stifling their laughs.
So Gandhiji asked them
straightforward, “Why not share your happiness with me, after all, I always
do.”
So one villager extricated
himself from throng, with a turban and mud particles clinging to his crops of
chest hair, which obviously showed he just celebrated, a little too much,
rolling in the mud, let huge sigh of relief, finally at being able to open his
mouth tell everything. In an uncharacteristically high pitched tone he yelled,
“And we had to hit the last ball for a six, and our guys did, in fact, hit it
over the rope, to the cow corner, yahoo!!”
Yuva’s heart was beating fast,
he feared its thumping might make enough noise to attract attention of the
people, yet at the same time a guilty tiredness seemed to grip him, making him
go weak in the limbs.
“Holy cow!!! They hit to cow
corner, our own guys, see how this sport is desecrating our sacred animals,”
bellowed Gandhiji.
“But Gandhiji it is just
terminology, there weren’t really any cows at that corner,” replied the same
villager.
“Doesn’t matter, cows or no
cows, it’s still a cow corner and we must maintain a healthy respect towards
it.”
The damage was done. The secret
is now revealed, and the realization sent a frisson among the people, as they
thought about the ramifications. Yuva was shifting uncomfortably in his place
and was readjusting his posture for umpteenth time that evening. Now he almost
moved to the edge of his chair.
“So this is what you guys were
up to, all the afternoons. Now I see the reason for such poor attendance in
noon and evening sessions. You guys were playing cricket, and it seems you were
even playing with the Britishers. That too, after I’ve clearly instructed you
not to. Cricket is an English game. Outrageous! You, tell me exactly how you
people were managing it.”
The villager, who was so
enthusiastic earlier, has the air sucked out of him now. He removed and undid
his turban and confessed that they were indeed playing cricket, that too
practicing in a neighboring village so as to get maximum possible immunity from
Gandhiji and the ashram inmates. They were not just playing locally anymore,
there was even an “Indian test team”, which was playing international test
matches.
Gandhiji was roaring with anger
now, “Hey Ram, I can’t believe you abandoned a direct order. I asked for a
simple thing, to not play cricket, as it was an English game through and
through. You know what, this is treason.”
“Um, Bapuji, er, I’m not sure
it’s treason; you’re neither a dictator nor the government.”
“Shut up, you imbecile.”
Yuva lapsed into an aggrieved
silence, never in his life he saw Gandhiji firing with such anger. He was
burning with rage. Suddenly it started raining heavily, a thunder less rain; it
seemed as if the nature was too frightened to issue forth the lightning and
thunder in the wake of Gandhiji’s ferocity.
“You are all a bunch of clowns,
who can’t tell apart a kitchen rat from a kangaroo, you couldn’t have set up a
national team; now just tell me how you did it?”
Almost all of the people
present there swallowed hard and there was a collective sound of gulp, they all
said in unison, “No Bapuji, w-we-um managed ourselves.”
“Lies. You even retort to
telling lies to me? To me? How dare you? Tell me who did it, or else I’m never
going to talk to you. I’ll shut this ashram down and go back to London.”
People loved Gandhiji dearly,
and though it hurt them to tell the truth, they had no choice. Slowly their
hands began to raise, with just their index finger outstretched, the finger
which has been used to accuse from times immemorial, at Yuva.
“Shit,” cursed Yuva, as a sea
of fingers pointed at him.
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