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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Teens
- Theme: Family & Friends
- Subject: Ideas / Discovery / Opinions
- Published: 04/25/2018
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Arjun and I entered the motorbike-like vehicle, and at some point the driver started the engine and drove off. Well, after some minutes, he stopped in front of a beautifully constructed building, and near it the Entrance sign to the Metro Station was . . . a statue of a man robed in a long dress and in turban. I brought out my wallet from the pocket of my trousers and paid the driver. And he smiled at me, before he drove off. When we walked into the station, at the ticket counter, several people were queuing up, waiting to purchase their tokens, to assist them get on board the train.
‘Which country?’ a voice came from behind me as I stood in the line, while Arjun stood before me. People usually question my nationality due to my unique looks. I looked back and there was another 20-something year-old guy, talking. Therefore, I didn’t answer him, and he broke into laughter with the other boys who were staying behind him.
‘He. Don’t. Spe-ek. Engli-sh’, he said to them in a slowed English-Indian accent. ‘If. He. Spoketh. English. He. Will. Know. What. I. Am. Saying.’
They laughed boisterously, I didn’t give a damn. But later, they would learn if I spoketh English or not. When it was my turn, the smile-ridden ticket -woman in a neatly ironed uniform said to me with a smile. ‘What station?’ And Arjun said: ‘Vishwavidyalaya’.
‘Your name?’ she asked, although there was no need for the name.
‘Kital’.
‘kendal?’
‘No, Kital’.
‘Ok’, she agreed. ‘This is RK Ashram Marg’, she spoke animatedly. ‘You stop at Rajiv Chowk, change line on Platform number two, to Central Secretariat, then, you will get to Viswavidyalaya’.
‘Thank you’, I said and she replied with an innocent smile. That was when they understood that I spoketh English, quickly I was out of their sight. Of course that was what I should say. RK Ashram Marg . . . Rajiv Chowk . . . Central Secretariat . . . then Viswavidyalaya. Things I never heard of. I wondered what she thought about ‘Kendal’. Kendal was a first time visitor, a newcomer and an infidel, (just like The Koran says that ‘when you encounter the infidels, strike off their heads till you have made a great slaughter and among them make fast the fetters . . .) I paid twenty four for two tokens for the two of us and quickly, we passed the ticket barrier.
After the Security searched me thoroughly, we ran up to the station that was to take us to Rajiv Chowk, and as we stood talking audibly, other passengers who were waiting for the trains to arrive, hooked their eyes on me. I couldn’t resist them. I tried to get myself together, so as not to mess up. And as we waited there, the two trains coming through different tracks, pulled up to an abrupt stop; we waited as the passengers onboard walked out. I saw sweet faces, but none was as tall as me, and possibly, they dragged themselves to their seats; children surged, probably these ones that hadn’t been to Metro Stations for the first time, so it was a great excitement for them, just as it were for me. As I sat in the rows in the train, I saw an old woman who stood staring into my eyes.
Moreover, I was odd, with my chocolate coloured skin, strange dark long hair and probably, my slender body. I tried getting my eyes off hers, but I couldn’t, so I beckoned on her to sit down there, while I stood, and she smiled, clasping her hands on her chest, she said: ‘Shukriya’. Nevertheless, I couldn’t tell if that was an abuse, still I smiled—Arjun frowned at me [but other passengers smiled, as if to say, ‘Thank you’ for giving the seat to her].
…As the train moved on, I began to notice things—I could see how every eye watched me. A couple, whose skin colours were as black as anything looked at me and smiled. I looked at Arjun and he smiled. I was confused. I couldn’t tell why they were smiling and as soon as the automated voice-over said: ‘Our next station is Rajiv Chowk, change line on Platform number two for Central Secretariat’, Arjun rose and when the train finally stopped, the passengers struggled out of it. We walked out. And began to run down to the next station, where our train to the named station would be arriving, I saw two young men, they looked very familiar like people I know from Mumbai. I was so-so excited. Honestly, that was the only time I would see a familiar face within the one night and day I came into Delhi from Mumbai.
But when the train finally came up, we walked in, and luckily for me, I got a seat, but not near Arjun. I began to think of Mumbai, filled with beautiful buses, and organized traffic on its own. Funny enough. it was my first time entering a Metro though, but that didn’t make me look stupid or alien. I knew how to behave very well. I come from a far better city than Delhi, it’s not a joke, at all. I was interrupted when two young boys sitting near me talked. The younger one smiled and said: ‘Which country is you?’ So I decided to make them look stupid, by not answering.
‘Senegal?’ the older one spoke for the first time, laughing.
‘West Indies?’
‘Jamaica?’
‘Kenya?’
But I said: ‘Kerala’. They were shocked. They couldn’t believe it. Again, they looked at me very well and smeared. ‘Kerala?’ a fat man, in turban said in astonishment. ‘Yes, Kerala’, I answered. They watched me in surprise. ‘What language do you speak?’ the Sikh man asked me in—and I replied boldly, ‘Malayalam and a little Punjabi’.
‘Punjabi?’ He was so surprised.
‘Yes, Punjabi’.
‘How come?’ He said and everyone looked at me again and again. I knew what I was doing.
‘I was born in Kurushektra’, I explained, lying. ‘But my parents are from Kerala’.
‘Which part of Kerala?’
‘Allappuzha’.
They froze. Inside of me, I was laughing. In spite of the fact that they saw my hair, my skin colour, they still believed that I was from Kerala.
‘But where do you live?’ the Sikh man asked.
‘England’.
‘England!’ He screamed and they became more interested in me.
‘London or England?’ the younger boy asked.
‘Both’, I nodded.
‘Wow!’ the older continued screaming.
‘Your father rich, eh?’ a voice asked, when I looked at him, I remembered Miki Maouz the Carpenter in our village. So slim, tall, with his feather-like hair, reeling incongruously.
‘Somehow’, I said.
‘Wow!’ the older boy was still screaming like—anything. He was so excited.
‘London, very cheap, eh?’ Miki Maouz the Carpenter’s look alike asked.
‘Not so cheap’.
‘Wow!’ the older boy was still so excited. I saw it in his eyes—Before I could look at the Sikh, he was already handing a card to me and he said: ‘My business card. Problem? Come to me. I am manage for Sify. Internet connection. Phone connection. Everything connection. E-mail me. Invite me for London. I will pay. I will come. Visa only’. I agreed and before I knew it, the same voice-over said: ‘The next station is Kashmere Gate . . .’, then, ‘Civil Lines’ and more interesting people entered, but then the Sikh was gone. That was when Arjun came and sat near me, still the Younger and Older boys were looking at me.
‘Your money. Hold, sir’, Arjun said and I nodded.
‘Yes. Indian people are very bad’, the Younger boy rammed. ‘They. Are. Cheaters’.
‘Wow!’ the Older whispered. ‘England?’
‘Yes, England’, I said, ignoring the Younger boy.
‘There are job opportunities there, eh?’ Miki Maouz the Carpenter look-alike asked.
‘Of course, there are’, I sounded too sure…
The end
My Walk Alone(kital Krishna)
Arjun and I entered the motorbike-like vehicle, and at some point the driver started the engine and drove off. Well, after some minutes, he stopped in front of a beautifully constructed building, and near it the Entrance sign to the Metro Station was . . . a statue of a man robed in a long dress and in turban. I brought out my wallet from the pocket of my trousers and paid the driver. And he smiled at me, before he drove off. When we walked into the station, at the ticket counter, several people were queuing up, waiting to purchase their tokens, to assist them get on board the train.
‘Which country?’ a voice came from behind me as I stood in the line, while Arjun stood before me. People usually question my nationality due to my unique looks. I looked back and there was another 20-something year-old guy, talking. Therefore, I didn’t answer him, and he broke into laughter with the other boys who were staying behind him.
‘He. Don’t. Spe-ek. Engli-sh’, he said to them in a slowed English-Indian accent. ‘If. He. Spoketh. English. He. Will. Know. What. I. Am. Saying.’
They laughed boisterously, I didn’t give a damn. But later, they would learn if I spoketh English or not. When it was my turn, the smile-ridden ticket -woman in a neatly ironed uniform said to me with a smile. ‘What station?’ And Arjun said: ‘Vishwavidyalaya’.
‘Your name?’ she asked, although there was no need for the name.
‘Kital’.
‘kendal?’
‘No, Kital’.
‘Ok’, she agreed. ‘This is RK Ashram Marg’, she spoke animatedly. ‘You stop at Rajiv Chowk, change line on Platform number two, to Central Secretariat, then, you will get to Viswavidyalaya’.
‘Thank you’, I said and she replied with an innocent smile. That was when they understood that I spoketh English, quickly I was out of their sight. Of course that was what I should say. RK Ashram Marg . . . Rajiv Chowk . . . Central Secretariat . . . then Viswavidyalaya. Things I never heard of. I wondered what she thought about ‘Kendal’. Kendal was a first time visitor, a newcomer and an infidel, (just like The Koran says that ‘when you encounter the infidels, strike off their heads till you have made a great slaughter and among them make fast the fetters . . .) I paid twenty four for two tokens for the two of us and quickly, we passed the ticket barrier.
After the Security searched me thoroughly, we ran up to the station that was to take us to Rajiv Chowk, and as we stood talking audibly, other passengers who were waiting for the trains to arrive, hooked their eyes on me. I couldn’t resist them. I tried to get myself together, so as not to mess up. And as we waited there, the two trains coming through different tracks, pulled up to an abrupt stop; we waited as the passengers onboard walked out. I saw sweet faces, but none was as tall as me, and possibly, they dragged themselves to their seats; children surged, probably these ones that hadn’t been to Metro Stations for the first time, so it was a great excitement for them, just as it were for me. As I sat in the rows in the train, I saw an old woman who stood staring into my eyes.
Moreover, I was odd, with my chocolate coloured skin, strange dark long hair and probably, my slender body. I tried getting my eyes off hers, but I couldn’t, so I beckoned on her to sit down there, while I stood, and she smiled, clasping her hands on her chest, she said: ‘Shukriya’. Nevertheless, I couldn’t tell if that was an abuse, still I smiled—Arjun frowned at me [but other passengers smiled, as if to say, ‘Thank you’ for giving the seat to her].
…As the train moved on, I began to notice things—I could see how every eye watched me. A couple, whose skin colours were as black as anything looked at me and smiled. I looked at Arjun and he smiled. I was confused. I couldn’t tell why they were smiling and as soon as the automated voice-over said: ‘Our next station is Rajiv Chowk, change line on Platform number two for Central Secretariat’, Arjun rose and when the train finally stopped, the passengers struggled out of it. We walked out. And began to run down to the next station, where our train to the named station would be arriving, I saw two young men, they looked very familiar like people I know from Mumbai. I was so-so excited. Honestly, that was the only time I would see a familiar face within the one night and day I came into Delhi from Mumbai.
But when the train finally came up, we walked in, and luckily for me, I got a seat, but not near Arjun. I began to think of Mumbai, filled with beautiful buses, and organized traffic on its own. Funny enough. it was my first time entering a Metro though, but that didn’t make me look stupid or alien. I knew how to behave very well. I come from a far better city than Delhi, it’s not a joke, at all. I was interrupted when two young boys sitting near me talked. The younger one smiled and said: ‘Which country is you?’ So I decided to make them look stupid, by not answering.
‘Senegal?’ the older one spoke for the first time, laughing.
‘West Indies?’
‘Jamaica?’
‘Kenya?’
But I said: ‘Kerala’. They were shocked. They couldn’t believe it. Again, they looked at me very well and smeared. ‘Kerala?’ a fat man, in turban said in astonishment. ‘Yes, Kerala’, I answered. They watched me in surprise. ‘What language do you speak?’ the Sikh man asked me in—and I replied boldly, ‘Malayalam and a little Punjabi’.
‘Punjabi?’ He was so surprised.
‘Yes, Punjabi’.
‘How come?’ He said and everyone looked at me again and again. I knew what I was doing.
‘I was born in Kurushektra’, I explained, lying. ‘But my parents are from Kerala’.
‘Which part of Kerala?’
‘Allappuzha’.
They froze. Inside of me, I was laughing. In spite of the fact that they saw my hair, my skin colour, they still believed that I was from Kerala.
‘But where do you live?’ the Sikh man asked.
‘England’.
‘England!’ He screamed and they became more interested in me.
‘London or England?’ the younger boy asked.
‘Both’, I nodded.
‘Wow!’ the older continued screaming.
‘Your father rich, eh?’ a voice asked, when I looked at him, I remembered Miki Maouz the Carpenter in our village. So slim, tall, with his feather-like hair, reeling incongruously.
‘Somehow’, I said.
‘Wow!’ the older boy was still screaming like—anything. He was so excited.
‘London, very cheap, eh?’ Miki Maouz the Carpenter’s look alike asked.
‘Not so cheap’.
‘Wow!’ the older boy was still so excited. I saw it in his eyes—Before I could look at the Sikh, he was already handing a card to me and he said: ‘My business card. Problem? Come to me. I am manage for Sify. Internet connection. Phone connection. Everything connection. E-mail me. Invite me for London. I will pay. I will come. Visa only’. I agreed and before I knew it, the same voice-over said: ‘The next station is Kashmere Gate . . .’, then, ‘Civil Lines’ and more interesting people entered, but then the Sikh was gone. That was when Arjun came and sat near me, still the Younger and Older boys were looking at me.
‘Your money. Hold, sir’, Arjun said and I nodded.
‘Yes. Indian people are very bad’, the Younger boy rammed. ‘They. Are. Cheaters’.
‘Wow!’ the Older whispered. ‘England?’
‘Yes, England’, I said, ignoring the Younger boy.
‘There are job opportunities there, eh?’ Miki Maouz the Carpenter look-alike asked.
‘Of course, there are’, I sounded too sure…
The end
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JD
07/17/2018I definitely agree with Martin Luther King that a person should be judged by the content of their character and not their skin color or other physical traits they were born with. It is not how you look but who you are and who you become that matters.
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