He was all of thirteen, short, slim and charming. With the characteristic school bag that seemingly weighed a ton, he set out from home to school. Typical of a school kid, he bid adieu to his parents and joyously strolled down the street, kicking the stones along the way. As the little one turned around the corner, out came a little pack of cigarettes that had been cleverly concealed in the bag .In the cover of a tree, away from the busy din, he puffed his way to glory. With every puff he felt like he was growing in age. Little did he care to get to school. All he felt was a sense of independence – the liberation of an impressionable mind. He loitered, picking junk food along the way. The ‘stolen’ pocket money seemed like a fortune that he had inherited from his ancestors. The poor servant girl at home was now looked with an eye of suspicion for the money that was being systematically siphoned away every week. With every successful theft his confidence was growing. He took pride in timing himself to perfection.

As he made his way to the Boys Hostel Ground, he picked another pack of cigarettes, in order to befriend the older boys playing cricket. They had happily accommodated him as a’ Ball Boy’, giving him an opportunity to face 3 balls at the end of the day, an incentive to keep him on guard throughout the match .He stood along the boundary in the midday sun, awaiting a masterstroke from the batsmen. As the batsman took guard, he sat on the bench visualizing him to be the man of the hour, dispatching each ball to the boundary, while his classmates stood cheering him for another six!

He remained amused, dreaming of his hour of fame. His undying thirst to grow popular amongst the pretty girls at class had driven him into playing cricket. His ‘enemy friend’ back at school, was a popular sportsman who bragged of his exploits in the game. It was ‘cool’ to be a cricketer, so he thought when a ball struck him like a bolt of lightning. He seemed to be in an illusion, as he fell with a thud spontaneously crying out for his mother.
Life is funny, we seek happiness in the unconquered, but in times of need cry for help, seeking the presence of our dear one’s. Deep within he knew that his cry would only be heard by his otherwise authoritarian mother, who had imposed a Hitler’s regime at home. All along, he hoped to remain away from her grabs, till the ball hit his rosy cheeks, damaging the jaw. He lay in mud, wilting in pain, as the blinding sun was beating it’s anvil on the ground. The senior boys rushed to the boundary to enquire of their loyal admirer. Tears stormed his eyes, but the very thought of being embarrassed amongst ‘real men’, held them back. Like a valiant soldier injured in a battlefield, he rose from the dust proclaiming his well being, while in reality he was digesting unbearable pain. A few words of praise and his newfound friends resumed their game, unmindful of his condition.

It was well beyond afternoon when he made a slow and painful walk back home. A sense of worry, a fear of having to field obvious questions engulfed his mind. He cursed his luck, preparing on the probable questions he would have to tackle. As he reached the corner bakery, the hunger pangs made a timely entry. He ordered for a Cream Bun and a Cool drink. The first bite and he yelled, unable to bear the pain in his jaws. Tears rolled down his cheeks, while the bakery owner looked sympathetically, offering him ice cubes to mend to the injury. He quickly left the shop, to prevent further embarrassment. The stray dog that had positioned itself beside the bakery was overwhelmed at feasting on an entire bun, as our little hero walked home, wiping away the tears that had made an unpleasant entry.
He momentarily hesitated at the gate, mustering his courage to tackle the obvious. A terrified look on his mothers face said it all. She seemed to have lost her senses on seeing the disfigured state of her adorable darling, frantically feeling his jaws to measure the magnitude of his injury. There was a battery of questions from his inconsolable mother. He remained mum for a while and when silence prevailed, he narrated the scripted version of having been hit by a cricket ball during the sports hour at school. She hastily dialed the family doctor seeking advice. An hour later, he found himself at clinic. After a few moments of animated suspense, the doctor declared that the jawbone wasn’t broken, much to her relief.

He retired to bed early that night, while she sat beside him softly massaging the little cheeks. He slowly slipped into sleep and she moved away to inspect the school uniform that had been dirtied beyond recognition .As she held the dress, an unpleasant odour engulfed the air. She felt a sense of discomfort, as she held it close to the nostrils. She couldn’t tolerate the pungent smell of nicotine. For a moment, she visualized the worst, mentally detesting the thought that her child was addicted to tobacco.

‘I have brought him up as a well-mannered boy “, she convinced herself “He is being provided with the best in life “.

With every passing moment, she sought an answer to her growing suspicion, all along hoping that she was wrong in her judgment. As she frantically scrutinized his trouser, she found scattered bits of tobacco that remained glued to the inner pockets. In disbelief, she dumped the trouser on the floor and picked his school bag to confirm the inevitable.

A pack of cigarettes emerged from the little pouch. For the first time in life, she was holding a packet of cigarettes, unimaginable for a traditional woman like her. She felt disgraced, devastated and worthless. She had failed, failed miserably as a mother. Till then, she boosted of being a worthy mother, hell bent on discipline and behavior. Every mistake or act of indiscipline translated into a whip. Somewhere down, she had failed to connect to the fickle mind , that was seeking answers .Her busy schedules , million dollar meetings , growing pressure and hectic lifestyle had taken it’s tool. The inherent authoritarian trait had refrained her from being his best friend. Today, she felt like beating herself. The little boy was fast asleep, oblivious of the latest happenings. She resolved to accompany him to school the following day, to track his progress. She resolved never to whip him again. All through the night she wept inconsolably, seeking relief in the tears that failed to cease.

Authority does not provide the desired results, Care does!

This could be happening in our own backyard. It’s time to reflect.

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