Mamta Kalia

of my friendship with Chandrapal had
become instantly visible. I had been
released from the taunts and the
hectorings of the Tyagi boys. Now I
did not have to stand waiting near the
tap for a drink of water. They all lost
their tongues when Chandrapal was
around. He could hit anyone he wanted.
Even otherwise, the Tyagi boys were
afraid of the Gujjar boys.
I had stood first in my section in
the half-yearly exam. My results bolstered
my self-confidence. I was made the class
monitor after the examination and my
seat was moved from the back of the
class to the front. The behaviour of some
teachers, however, was still unfriendly.
They were indifferent and contemptuous
of me.
I was kept out of extracurricular
activities. On such occasions I stood
on the margins like a spectator. During
the annual functions of the school, when
rehearsals were on for the play, I too
wished for a role. But I always had to
stand outside the door. The so called
descendants of gods cannot understand
the anguish of standing outside the door.
All the teachers were Tyagis, and
among the students too Tyagis were in
the majority. No one could afford to
say anything against them. During the
examinations we could not drink water
from the glass when thirsty. To drink
water, we had to cup our hands. The
peon would pour water from way high
up, lest our hands touch the glass.
There was a library in the school
where books were gathering dust. It was
in the library where I first became
18 :: April-June 2010
acquainted with books. By the time I
reached class eight, I had read
Saratchandra, Premchand and
Rabindranath Tagore. Saratchandra’s
characters had touched my child’s heart
very deeply. I had become somewhat
of an introvert, and reading had become
my main passion.
I had begun to read novels and short
stories to my mother in the faint light
of the wick lamp. Who knows how often
Saratchandra’s characters have made a
mother and son cry together? This was
the beginning of my literary sensibility.
Starting from Alha, the Ramayana and
the Mahabharata to Sur Sagar, Prem
Sagar, Sukh Sagar, Premchand’s stories,
Kissa Tota Maina...
whatever I found, I, the son of an
untouchable illiterate family, read to my
mother.
In April 1993, an invitation came
from Rajendra Yadavji, editor of Hans.
He had organized a programme called
‘Katha Kathan’ in the labourers’ colonies
of Delhi, and I too got the chance to
tell my stories there. The first event
was at the Valmiki Temple at Mandir
Marg. I experienced a strange emotion
while narrating my story. That day the
memories of my mother had come afresh
all of a sudden. What better way to
bridge the gap between literature and
reader than Katha Kathan? The illiterate
masses cannot read literature. Those who
can read are unable to buy books. Katha
Kathan provided an avenue for a
meaningful dialogue between readers and
writers.
As my studies advanced, I began