In the summer of 1989, this is how my mother found me- Running in circles around the Jain temple like a compass gone wrong, with my hair in disarray, smeared in mud, shouting hoarse, along with my partner-in-crime, chased by the temple’s watchman and smelling of dung, that too fresh DUNG. She assumed, I must have plucked some flowers at the Jain temple, troubled the watchman, made noise in the quiet afternoon, all the common reasons that usually get 8 year olds into trouble. But she was wrong. The reason was GOLD, BLACK Gold. Intrigued? So, was my mother.
I consider myself blessed for being the child of the 80s and 90s. Everything was a wonder, an adventure, a thing to explore! The newly arrived Color TV was beyond my imagination, a fascination I got addicted to. I was a big fan. Right from farmer’s program to Urdu news, I watched everything - the images, the music, the color band at the beginning of the evening broadcast, every line jump of the screen reeled me in! Most of the time, my TV mate was my grand mom. We made a pretty picture gawking at the idiot box like it was GOD delivering innate wisdom. I believed everything. Here is where the story begins.
I consider myself blessed for being the child of the 80s and 90s. Everything was a wonder, an adventure, a thing to explore! The newly arrived Color TV was beyond my imagination, a fascination I got addicted to. I was a big fan. Right from farmer’s program to Urdu news, I watched everything - the images, the music, the color band at the beginning of the evening broadcast, every line jump of the screen reeled me in! Most of the time, my TV mate was my grand mom. We made a pretty picture gawking at the idiot box like it was GOD delivering innate wisdom. I believed everything. Here is where the story begins.
On a hot summer evening, there wasn’t much on TV and, I was getting bored and then TV God said something- the secret to become rich via BLACK GOLD. My 8-year-old brain understood only this, if I act on this idea pronto, 20 years later I can be in the lap of Goddess Lakshmi! I can eat 100s of Bhel puri, buy chips, chocolates, books without having to ask my mom. I decided not to waste even a minute.
I called my bum chum, my playmate, my little brother to partner me in a task that would just make our future. Now, my little brother was oblivious to the worldly wisdom and knew only one thing- follow his big sister. With his support, I set about the task of gathering the essentials of the plan- piece of iron, fresh mud (red color only), Tulasi, vegetables, cotton, water and fresh dung.
While we were able to gather the rest, fresh dung posed a challenge. But obstacles didn’t deter us.
We waited for the neighborhood cow to take its regular stroll. Thap, thapaak..Voila, we got our fresh ingredient. But we also needed hair.
We contemplated the potential contributors. My dad and my uncles were not at home and asking any elder would put a dent to our dream and to our skull. Then we found him, Ramlal – the watchman of the Jain temple opposite to our house. He fit the bill- 6 foot, burly man with a head full of curly golden brown hair. He was on his afternoon siesta.
We contemplated the potential contributors. My dad and my uncles were not at home and asking any elder would put a dent to our dream and to our skull. Then we found him, Ramlal – the watchman of the Jain temple opposite to our house. He fit the bill- 6 foot, burly man with a head full of curly golden brown hair. He was on his afternoon siesta.
The plan was foolproof, at least to two children whose combined age didn't add up to the years it would take that "Black Gold" to actually mature. We tiptoed across the road - my brother carrying the dung in a steel tumbler like it was the crown jewels, me leading the expedition with the quiet authority of someone who had clearly seen this done on TV (I hadn't, not really, but details).
Ramlal was flat on his back on the temple veranda, mouth open, snoring like a generator that needed servicing. His golden-brown curls were RIGHT THERE. Catching the afternoon sun. Practically advertising themselves.
I had brought my mother's small embroidery scissors, smuggled out of her sewing box with the stealth of a seasoned thief. My brother's job was simple - hold the tumbler steady, and if Ramlal so much as twitched, run. We had not discussed run where, or run without me, but these are the gaps that 8-year-old contracts always have.
I leaned in. Snip. One curl, soft and warm from the sun, fell into my palm like a trophy. I was already mentally spending the Lakshmi money. Bhel puri. Five-Star chocolates. That fat encyclopedia set Ramesh from the third floor had and wouldn't lend.
Snip number two is where things went wrong. Ramlal stirred, and in his half-sleep, swatted at what he probably thought was a fly near his ear. His hand connected with my wrist. He woke up to a small girl holding scissors over his head, and a smaller boy holding a tumbler of fresh cow dung with the solemnity of an altar boy.
What followed cannot be called a chase so much as a redistribution of energy. Ramlal roared. My brother, true to his only directive of follow sister, threw the tumbler - not AT Ramlal, just generally, in the spirit of lightening the load for a faster getaway - and several pounds of our precious "ingredient" went airborne, landing generously on both of us and a fair portion of the temple courtyard.
We ran. We ran past the Tulasi plant, knocking it sideways. We ran past the red mud we'd dug up that morning, kicking it into the air like confetti. We ran in circles, because the temple compound was walled and we hadn't, in our infinite planning, accounted for an exit strategy. Ramlal, barefoot and furious, ran after us, shouting things about our family, our ancestors, and our future prospects that were considerably less optimistic than the ones promised by my TV God.
This is how my mother found us. Two children, hair full of mud, smelling like the inside of a cowshed, running in terrified circles around a Jain temple, one curly golden-brown hair still pinched triumphantly between my fingers - the only piece of "Black Gold" we ever got to keep.
