Being a BOY - A Confession

During my teenage years, one of my teachers taught me how to grade BOYS.  A graders are those, when come across a walking girl while riding a bike, just look at her and keep riding.  B graders are those, who go  past the girl, turn their head and look at her back too.  The C graders were those who look at her back and ride themselves into the fences (and get hurt).  According to my teacher, those  who did not even look at the girl are not Boys.

I am not sure which grade I would fit in, but,I know I was a Boy, and I never rode into a fence.  So, I am either A or a B grader.  Even when I relocated myself from Jaffna to Peradeniya, to College Station, to Fayettville, to Griffith, to Lahore, to Sydney, to Musact and now to Delhi, I  pretty much maintain my grade, I confess.  There was a time  Jaffna women were most appealing, then Mexicans in Texas, later Punjabis in Lahore.

Now its very simple, the younger ones are most appealing than the older ones.

As I walk through messy and crowded streets of Delhi, my eyes some or other spot a young girl, looking trendy and cheerful.  This is especially true when there is a group of them.  These young mobs of girls ooze in confidence, mostly in a blue jeans but wearing an Indian Kurta as a top, chin up, hair bundled as a pony tail of some sort.  Every step they make, they walk as conquerors of the world.

Where are the boys then?  Or, am I still being a BOY, only attracted to the girls,so that I am unable to see the boys?

Death of a Pigeon

Delhi had some of its coldest nights recently.  Night temperatures were below 2 degrees.  I waited till noon last Saturday for my walk.  It was still cold.

A pigeon leaning on a wall and a curious person near it attracted my attention.  The bird was shivering, and its head buried under its feathers.  The man figured it out that the pigeon needed some warmth.  He collected some papers, sticks and so on, and set a fire, took the bird near it, and he too sat on his haunches.  A few more joined him to keep warm.  The bird on its part stretched its wings and legs and its eyes shone.  All, including me were feeling good.

Then the bird dropped, stretched its legs and died.

The man took some water, sprinkled on the dead bird, said a religious slogan for the soul, then took it and disposed it in a garbage tricycle.  I think it was the first time in my life I watched death.  Many have told me that the soul departs through the eyes.  May be some truth in it.  I felt sorry for the bird, but was happy that I witnessed a humane act of a peasant.  He is a shoe polisher on the street.  He is the kind of people I despise, because they piss and spit on the street.  Yet, within him, there was Godliness.  For a minute I thought that I will give him a few rupees, but did not.  I did not have the right to stain his unsolicited compassionate act.

I continued my walk with my head down.