Time Space & Me

The  mysterious, mischievous Macavity from Eliot's pen would be the near perfect definition of a young boy learning the ways of the world. Then, that was me a very long time back......almost three decade and half winters back. Thin stature that no one in the family would believe me to grow in girth. Kiran, an equally mischievous and mathematically intelligent, immediate sibling who never would take me by three winters was a company, friend and my brother. Smart and temperamental in his natural best. We would hang around the house playing a boyish gun battle and a tricycle that Papa would have got for us from Gwahati. I would steer and peddle till my knees gave up, while he would occupy the stepney seat, hooting in great enthusiasm as we roller costed the slop behind our house. Then, we would let the gravity do the job, take a turn and come to the same point, routinely as ever. I don't remember, getting tired of this function till some one in the house, intercepted our brotherly round the world, in tricycle. Our contemporaries would watch and jeer us play and may be borrow turns for the ride. It depended, sometime they would get, or otherwise, we simply rejected the sweet tongues. We would play and play and play mischievously till some we get into trouble of being caught in the action or being reported of. We would reap away the birds nests and take a pleasure in crushing their progenies. We would climb tuft of plants, thick bushes or orange branches just to break into the bird's nest and spoil their families. The orange trees were lean and just, we would swing and lay them into ground. We had these plants, from the time our ancestors threw seeds on this land. The favorite of all the trees was the one near the brook, shadowed by the bamboo reeds, overly at the cardamom nursery. While the orange sprouted and started to flower, cardamom spindle would watch and envy......I being elder, I would often monkey the tree and vandalize the dove, bulbul or faista's nest, That day, we were in inaction spree and we had Kombies, bent sickles with blade like scalpel out of operating theater. Bubu, there shouted Kiran in excitement. Without wasting a second, I jumped into the tree and started my hands on Kotera bird. Poor birds, the nest was ofcourse, with the baby birds, just about few days. With my expertise, I ransacked these unfortunate birds and vollyballed to the ground. The poor chicks, six or seven in counts were naked, still delicate and pinkish with dots of eyes. They would open their beaks, quivering and with great hopes of maggots and worms. I would take them one by one and execute them by running their tender neck through the razor blade, position them horizontally to the edge, slightly push and slide them. The razor would shear them like water.....they would never feel the pain but the very act would be painful. I would giggle in excitement, mutter and execute another.....till the last bird. Just then the execution of the last chick finished, I found my self being missiled by stone pebbles and hard mud. There was that monstrous voice shouting at us and as I lifted my head up, found Bhakta bua, pelting another mud bullet on my way. I ducked and jumped and sprinted like a deer in-front of a lion. He was home from college as accidentally found our vicious endeavour. Having stalked for a while, he punished us by pulling our ear and rendering us few slaps, and delivering us of discourse covering the value of innocence, helplessness and life at large. Today, as I write this piece, I understand him then, that he was just scaring us by short-putting stones at us.....and yes, I learnt to save life......often, when we meet and over the barrel of beer, we talk and laugh these things. He is my Rimpoche, presently he is a professor at CNR!!!!