Stumped

It was yet another work day. I dragged myself to the Dadar station. The crowd did not amuse me anymore. I was a branded Mumbaikkar now even though the Thackreys might disagree with me due to my ignorance of Marathi. I was putting my efforts towards that too. Three things I never forget while travelling to my office is my wallet, my dog collar or in other words my ID tag and my iPod. But it was one of those days. I did forget the third. I would have rather left my wallet home and begged for money. But it was to be a music-free day. I realized how much loud Indians could get in public places. The decibels would beat any rock concert, I thought. I had the longest 20 minutes of my life ahead of me, I thought. 

Two minutes passed and out of the corner of the train came a shrill voice. It beat all the noise levels. It was a kid, about 10-12 years old, singing on top of his voice. I had seen him before in the train, and I could gather that he was singing for money. The Floyds and the Benassis kept me too busy to unplug the earphones and listen to him. But that day, I had no choice. The kid sounded amazing. Everyone in the bogie had stopped talking. All were listening to the music that was coming out from his mouth. It was a old Rafi song, the kid was singing, which got immediate nod of approval from the older uncles in the journey. They had to follow it up with the usual dialogue, “Aaj kal ke ganon mein wo baat hi nahi rahi”. It is strange when the younger generation appreciates the Rafis and the Burmans, the older ones still hesitate to acknowledge the Vishals and the Shekars. The kid collected approximately 10 bucks before we both got down at Andheri. I am always caught in two minds when it comes to giving money to the kids who are begging. Would I encourage them or help them?! Before I could decide, he had vanished into the thick flow of human beings.

The day was moving as slow as the train journey itself. My team mate, and a new found friend of sorts had run out of smoke partners on that day and he asked me if I would accompany him to the Tapri. I was happy to do anything apart from staring at the incomprehensible codes. They always appear to me like cryptic crossword of the toughest category. We strolled down to the tapri and were cribbing about the project and giving some nice galis to our manager. We were running out of galis infact. My friend ordered tea and I sat there checking out the babes who were out there for a smoke. That is one proof I would take for branding women as a minority. That and the amount of female music composers.

“Bhaiyya, chai”, someone came from behind me and spoke. It was him – the kid from the train. I had just managed to take the figure of him singing in the train, out of my mind a while back. But, there he stood again with a couple of glasses in his hand filled with hot tea.

“Tum wahi ho na? Train me jo gate ho ? “ I asked.

“Haan bhaiyya. Aapko acha lagta hai mera gana ? ”. He smiled.

I guess he would rather be a trained singer than a train singer, I thought.

“Tum yahan Kaam Karte ho?” I enquired.

“Nahi bau. Ladka apna ich hai. Uska leave chal raha hai na ischool pe. Toh aa jata hai” The guy behind the counter interfered.

I ignored him and asked the kid, “School jate ho?”

“Haan Bhaiyya. I go to school daily. School bhi idhar ich hai. Apan daily train mein gaake aata hai. Pocket money bhi mil jata hai, aur mera riyaz bhi ho jata hai”. He ran in to pick up his next order.

He came back humming ‘Iktara’.

My friend asked him, when he is back, “Acha gaa lete ho yaar. Singer banoge bada hoke?”

“Mazak math udao saab. Hum kahan banenge singer. Nazeeb bhi koi cheez hoti hai”. Even his words had soul, like his songs.

“Sunte kahan ho gane tum?”, I was curious.

“Radio hai na apna. Lekin saale hamesha naye gaana hi bajate rehte hain. Wahi khisa pita Pritam aur Himesh. Ek baar movie hall se gayi, toh wo movie ka gaana bajana bandh kar dete hain. Phir wait karna padta hai ki gana kab aayega”. He could go on and on I thought.

I remembered getting frustrated about finding it hard to search a song in my iPod. I was finding it hard to swallow the tea. My friend gave me a smile which had helplessness written all over it. The kind of smile we all give when the general elections take place.

“Raat ko mast English gaane bajte hain. Kuch samaj nahi aata phir bhi mast lagta hai”. His eyes lit up everytime he spoke about music. “Main bhi Indian Idol mein gayega. Mast hai wo”.

“Haan Haan. Abhi keliye glass saaf karke de. Customer khada hai” The guy behind the counter shouted.

I called out to him and asked, “Naam kya hai tera?”. “Kishore” he said and ran away. Couldn’t be more appropriate, I thought.

I kept thinking about the whole thing throughout the day. The next day I went back to the tapri with a small mp3 player that I had bought for my dad, which he had used once in the last 3 years. I called out to the kid and gave him the mp3 player. His eyes couldn’t have expanded more. “Gaane hain kya ismein?”, he asked. “Thode bohot hain”, I said.

“Baaki mera friend bhar dega. Uske paas bhi aise ich iPod hai”. He said. I stood there watching him run inside the shop jumping up and down. I plugged on my iPod and walked back to my office praying that someday he becomes a trained singer.