I am a lawyer and a social activist based in this bustling, beautiful, green city of 15 million - New Delhi- the capital of my beloved country: India
Truth and justice is the pivot around which my sky of consciousness and thoughts circumnutates.
The attachment with truth and justice seems to be etched in the telomerase of our chromosomes. My brothers and sisters my parents and fore-fathers share the trait in varying degrees.
Giving up my atavistic core values is akin to giving up my head.
My uncle i.e. elder brother of my father died of wounds he had received while trying to protect a stranger from criminals.
My late father had a history of getting into trouble for others by taking up the cause of victims of goons and ruffians in a predominantly Muslim dominated locality in Kolkata the erstwhile British capital of India. The bootleggers and wagerers got him twice behind bars on trumped up charges. He lived a life amidst threats, harassment, and assaults and breathed his last in it. He was never repentant for the trial and tribulation he underwent.
I joined a number of organizations, afectating to be espousing the cause of the oppressed and underprivileged but I abandoned them sooner therefore.
I have helped form "Assembly of People of Heart" registered with the Registrar of Societies Govt. of India in the last week of April 2008. I am its Vice-chairman. I pray and hope that I am able to deliver.
Now we are campaigning against cruelty on draft animals, in Delhi.
Monday, May 19, 2008
Saturday, April 12, 2008
Bulls amd men ofclay
It is four months since I took up residence here at Jogabai Extension, an out growth of the predominantly Muslim locality known as Zakirnagar .The outgrowth is said to be an unlawful encroachment on the dried up bed of river Yamuna. I stay in the ground floor, in a small room, of a two storey, un-plastered house built on fifty square feet of sand filled land. One of the doors of my room opens on traffic less street which is used by pedestrian cyclists and occasionally two wheelers as of now
.Ever since my stay here, when ever I happen to wake up any time in the night I would be met by a disturbing and terrific tradling, squeaking sound of a bullock cart zooming past till the muezzins’ call of adhan went up at the crack of dawn , and beyond. The rhythmic whack of baton in perfect rhyme with mad raining of hooves squeaks and treadles... The impressions would evaporate no sooner they would get registered in my mind matter of factedly.
Today I went in a different direction for my morning cup of tea in the open and walk and for that matter I ventured further north towards the Yamuna on my return journey. Was it an alive being with the senses of thirst, hunger, pain? Its mouth open in perfect 30 degree angle, bisected by a straight nearly cylindrical muddy tongue struggling to shoot out from the base. The mouth and tongue seemed locked still in a picture frame- out of thirst, hunger, pain or constriction it is difficult for me to say.
The bruised black open mouthed buffalo-bull answering the intermittent raining of batons with spurts of vertical jumps and then resuming the run. The cart was the size of a mini-truck laden with a mountain of grey sand loaded from the Yamuna bank. It was 7.30 in the morning. Alas! One more prayer had gone up from the minaret’s, dotting the sky line. “For Allah’s sake stop this cruelty”. It was 120 days and 120 nights the poor creature had been undergoing the merciless travails and how many more days lay ahead of him to be a perfect clay.
I sat brooding on the side walk with a Rs.3/- pen and a piece of soiled paper: “Ah Allah has not enabled me to have a digital camera to capture the life of men”., a small caravan of 3 elders and probably seven children passed by the size of procession never swelled till the grave yard. None of the faithful gave their ritualistic at least few steps together to the corpse and the bereaved. The oldest among them in his 60’s walked with the body wrapped in sparkling white coffin the two ends of which was tied giving the package a shape of bottle, in his lap. The body was that of a child but not of a baby.
One of the children walked behind holding a small polythene bag which showed a packet of incense stick a match box and some other stuff. In his left hand, with the other he held her sister’s hand firmly who seemed half his age.
.Ever since my stay here, when ever I happen to wake up any time in the night I would be met by a disturbing and terrific tradling, squeaking sound of a bullock cart zooming past till the muezzins’ call of adhan went up at the crack of dawn , and beyond. The rhythmic whack of baton in perfect rhyme with mad raining of hooves squeaks and treadles... The impressions would evaporate no sooner they would get registered in my mind matter of factedly.
Today I went in a different direction for my morning cup of tea in the open and walk and for that matter I ventured further north towards the Yamuna on my return journey. Was it an alive being with the senses of thirst, hunger, pain? Its mouth open in perfect 30 degree angle, bisected by a straight nearly cylindrical muddy tongue struggling to shoot out from the base. The mouth and tongue seemed locked still in a picture frame- out of thirst, hunger, pain or constriction it is difficult for me to say.
The bruised black open mouthed buffalo-bull answering the intermittent raining of batons with spurts of vertical jumps and then resuming the run. The cart was the size of a mini-truck laden with a mountain of grey sand loaded from the Yamuna bank. It was 7.30 in the morning. Alas! One more prayer had gone up from the minaret’s, dotting the sky line. “For Allah’s sake stop this cruelty”. It was 120 days and 120 nights the poor creature had been undergoing the merciless travails and how many more days lay ahead of him to be a perfect clay.
I sat brooding on the side walk with a Rs.3/- pen and a piece of soiled paper: “Ah Allah has not enabled me to have a digital camera to capture the life of men”., a small caravan of 3 elders and probably seven children passed by the size of procession never swelled till the grave yard. None of the faithful gave their ritualistic at least few steps together to the corpse and the bereaved. The oldest among them in his 60’s walked with the body wrapped in sparkling white coffin the two ends of which was tied giving the package a shape of bottle, in his lap. The body was that of a child but not of a baby.
One of the children walked behind holding a small polythene bag which showed a packet of incense stick a match box and some other stuff. In his left hand, with the other he held her sister’s hand firmly who seemed half his age.
Interestingly I found almost no lips muttering a prayer for the poor soul. A few days back a coffin bearing caravan had also passed that way then countless faces with down cast eyes had turned muttering prayers to bless the soul. Passer byes and shopkeepers and hawkers had lent their steps to earn the pleasure of Allah and honor the tradition of Prophet... It was a caravan of well-fed and well-clothed the size of which went on swelling till the procession reached the grave yard at the end of the road.
This was a patch of soiled men of clay. The next day when my bruised heart sought solace from another one, one of my Hindu friends said;” It is because of their previous bad karmas because of which they are suffering. My Muslim friend said “it is the will of Allah the master of all affairs, a sin to thing otherwise”
This was a patch of soiled men of clay. The next day when my bruised heart sought solace from another one, one of my Hindu friends said;” It is because of their previous bad karmas because of which they are suffering. My Muslim friend said “it is the will of Allah the master of all affairs, a sin to thing otherwise”
Sunday, April 6, 2008
First knock of death in my head! and then others
The first death and earliest experience of death in life was that of a neighbour whom everybody called chachi . I didnt see her dying. She had died half a minute before. Those were the days shen T.B was thought to be incurable and fatal. She would be around 50 years or probably less at that rime. We saw her coughing and spitting all the time in an alumunium spittoon. She rarely moved out of the room, most of the time sitting on her haunches on a wooden cot raised with 3 layers of bricks to the window level. Sometime she would descend from her cot to the floor..
My Aunt Husna was the only person among the neighbours and their relatives who would give her company against the advise of many.
She would say "kisi sey nafrat aur ghin nahi karna chahiye "one should not or be averse to anybody for these reasons". " jo hota hai Allah key hukum sey hota hai"i.e Whatever happens happens by the will of Allah"
My Aunt was a very plain, simple,kindhearted and God fearing person.
Regretfully the events and circumstances leading to the death of my aunt still makes me sad and remorseful and sombre.
It is nearly 25 years when she died. It was a couple of days before Eid festival when she began to writhe with pain in her left arm and chest.
She lay on the floor writhing in pain and whimpering all the time. Father had no money on him to bear the expenses of doctor or medicine. We would give her PUDINHARA capsules and husk of flax seeds thinking that the gas must be resulting from gas..
For every second of the 48 hours she lay writhing and whimpering, day and night. She was lying on a separate bedding next to me when I went to sleep. It was probably 2 o'clock in the morning when I woke up to the sound of loud thud and sound of deep blow of air. I saw aunt face down fallen. She had been to the toilet.
I shouted plaintively " bari amma ko kya ho gaya" " bari amma ko kya ho gaya" meaning "what
has happened to bari amma'
Father asked me to go to Islamia Hospital at Chitranjan Avenue and fetch a doctor.
I wondered how "How I am going to address him?, What should I say? . Now suppose if he losses his temper? I formulated words and sentences and kept rehearsing till I reached the hospital.
A couple of junior doctors from the hostel readily and matter of factedly accompanied me home. They declared aunt dead. Sobs turned into cries.
Male members rushed in different in different direction carrying the message of aunt's death to relatives and acquaintences.
The mourners and her body was carried in an open lorry to Sola aana graveyard at Kidderpore where she was burried. The memoirs of graveyards is bit hazy can't say why.
Aunt stayed with us along with her daughter eversince uncle's untimely death. She was dependent on father.
My heart sank as we returned from the graveyard. I wont see Aunt anymore .Memories of the past came like heavy blocks of rocks on my being- my head, my heart my stomach, my leg my sole. I could defintely feel every organ and limb sad and exhausted like me.
My Aunt Husna was the only person among the neighbours and their relatives who would give her company against the advise of many.
She would say "kisi sey nafrat aur ghin nahi karna chahiye "one should not or be averse to anybody for these reasons". " jo hota hai Allah key hukum sey hota hai"i.e Whatever happens happens by the will of Allah"
My Aunt was a very plain, simple,kindhearted and God fearing person.
Regretfully the events and circumstances leading to the death of my aunt still makes me sad and remorseful and sombre.
It is nearly 25 years when she died. It was a couple of days before Eid festival when she began to writhe with pain in her left arm and chest.
She lay on the floor writhing in pain and whimpering all the time. Father had no money on him to bear the expenses of doctor or medicine. We would give her PUDINHARA capsules and husk of flax seeds thinking that the gas must be resulting from gas..
For every second of the 48 hours she lay writhing and whimpering, day and night. She was lying on a separate bedding next to me when I went to sleep. It was probably 2 o'clock in the morning when I woke up to the sound of loud thud and sound of deep blow of air. I saw aunt face down fallen. She had been to the toilet.
I shouted plaintively " bari amma ko kya ho gaya" " bari amma ko kya ho gaya" meaning "what
has happened to bari amma'
Father asked me to go to Islamia Hospital at Chitranjan Avenue and fetch a doctor.
I wondered how "How I am going to address him?, What should I say? . Now suppose if he losses his temper? I formulated words and sentences and kept rehearsing till I reached the hospital.
A couple of junior doctors from the hostel readily and matter of factedly accompanied me home. They declared aunt dead. Sobs turned into cries.
Male members rushed in different in different direction carrying the message of aunt's death to relatives and acquaintences.
The mourners and her body was carried in an open lorry to Sola aana graveyard at Kidderpore where she was burried. The memoirs of graveyards is bit hazy can't say why.
Aunt stayed with us along with her daughter eversince uncle's untimely death. She was dependent on father.
My heart sank as we returned from the graveyard. I wont see Aunt anymore .Memories of the past came like heavy blocks of rocks on my being- my head, my heart my stomach, my leg my sole. I could defintely feel every organ and limb sad and exhausted like me.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Painful childhood
We all seven brothers and sisters, used to haul water, in buckets of varying sizes as per our capacity from the street tap to the second floor. We were mortified by shyness and the exercise was very painful for us.
As we seven brothers and sisters grew up, our imporvishment also grew proportionately.
The meager income of father becoming smaller and smaller to fill the increasing size of our stomach and our other needs.
One day I rushed home at lunch break to be told by my mother that there was nothing to eat.
Notice from landlord to quit, electricity disconnection. Perpetual disturbed sleep because of ever increase in the number of transport companies and their business in the locality. The whole night our building would vibrate shake and our ears would drum with terrible noises. With the added terror of the gonads in the area.
One day I was just entering the main gate of our building when one kalloo a vendor below told me “your father is being beaten up by Aftab and others। Near medrasa Nidae Islam” I rushed to the spot and burst into cry. I saw my middle aged sick father who was recovering from T.B bleeding profusely from his mouth sitting in a corner. Everyone knew what his or her beating was like. This man had committed scores of murder. The gang to which this man belonged had committed scores of murder in the locality and maimed thousands of people permanently by then. The same man i.e. Aftab and his accomplice Noorul Abshar pinned Quasim the twelve year servant of my neighbour on the sidewalk below and pulled out all his hairs from his head, in full view of people .It was 11 am in the morning people were milling around every where and rubbing shoulders due to office rush. Quasim shrieked madly every time and the goon burst into laughter.
The goons owed allegiance to Congress(I) under Marxist rule. They were by God licensed killers. Their pet and tried method was to batter their victims with wooden planks or batons and later burn the weapon of offence. No one ever went to police. A few of them did and met with their sure and painful end. There were some who wrote to the chief minister and ministers but there never never was a response.
Every day they bought some one and tortured him for hours on ends nearly the whole night near C.M.O High School building around which they had grabbed properties of poor people. They had their dens in those buildings. They had put up a signboard of Mr. Somen Mitra. The Member of Parliament from Kolkata. Many of the tortures would take place in his presence. Mr. Somen Mitra attended the office daily for two hours in the evening.
The shriek and heart rending whimper of the victims would travel far and wide. When the victim would fall unconscious they would throw buckets of water on him and then resume the beatings, most often the exercise would start after midnight and continue till morning. In the morning we’d find the street or side walk abnormally clean. Because the goons had washed the spot of vomit, faeces and blood.
It was heart of the city flanked by cheek jowl tall buildings and residential quarters, flanked by broad streets roads and tall buildings and medrasas mosques etc with local police station Bow Bazaar police station 5 minutes walk, Calcutta Medical College and University, Police Head Quarters, Government Secretariat at most within 15-20 minutes walk.
Calcutta Police beat officers would in their beat pass by the spot। Police jeeps and vans would pass by the spot umpteen number of times but would never interfere, matter of factedly.
Mostly in the evening, quite too often the area would erupt with explosions. The goons would play bomb game with other groups of neighboring localities I/e Eden hospital road, Bow bazaar satta group, .Rabindra Sarani. They would throw crude bombs here and there madly, their threats and abuses rising to crescendo. The flames would rise a storey high.. But interestingly there never was an occasion when any of them received any injuries. It was mostly the unsuspecting passer byes squatters or children who received injuries or died in the blast. Some time the exchange of bombs would take place across Chitranjan Avenue the most important road Motorcade of dignitaries would pass through the रोड,.
As we seven brothers and sisters grew up, our imporvishment also grew proportionately.
The meager income of father becoming smaller and smaller to fill the increasing size of our stomach and our other needs.
One day I rushed home at lunch break to be told by my mother that there was nothing to eat.
Notice from landlord to quit, electricity disconnection. Perpetual disturbed sleep because of ever increase in the number of transport companies and their business in the locality. The whole night our building would vibrate shake and our ears would drum with terrible noises. With the added terror of the gonads in the area.
One day I was just entering the main gate of our building when one kalloo a vendor below told me “your father is being beaten up by Aftab and others। Near medrasa Nidae Islam” I rushed to the spot and burst into cry. I saw my middle aged sick father who was recovering from T.B bleeding profusely from his mouth sitting in a corner. Everyone knew what his or her beating was like. This man had committed scores of murder. The gang to which this man belonged had committed scores of murder in the locality and maimed thousands of people permanently by then. The same man i.e. Aftab and his accomplice Noorul Abshar pinned Quasim the twelve year servant of my neighbour on the sidewalk below and pulled out all his hairs from his head, in full view of people .It was 11 am in the morning people were milling around every where and rubbing shoulders due to office rush. Quasim shrieked madly every time and the goon burst into laughter.
The goons owed allegiance to Congress(I) under Marxist rule. They were by God licensed killers. Their pet and tried method was to batter their victims with wooden planks or batons and later burn the weapon of offence. No one ever went to police. A few of them did and met with their sure and painful end. There were some who wrote to the chief minister and ministers but there never never was a response.
Every day they bought some one and tortured him for hours on ends nearly the whole night near C.M.O High School building around which they had grabbed properties of poor people. They had their dens in those buildings. They had put up a signboard of Mr. Somen Mitra. The Member of Parliament from Kolkata. Many of the tortures would take place in his presence. Mr. Somen Mitra attended the office daily for two hours in the evening.
The shriek and heart rending whimper of the victims would travel far and wide. When the victim would fall unconscious they would throw buckets of water on him and then resume the beatings, most often the exercise would start after midnight and continue till morning. In the morning we’d find the street or side walk abnormally clean. Because the goons had washed the spot of vomit, faeces and blood.
It was heart of the city flanked by cheek jowl tall buildings and residential quarters, flanked by broad streets roads and tall buildings and medrasas mosques etc with local police station Bow Bazaar police station 5 minutes walk, Calcutta Medical College and University, Police Head Quarters, Government Secretariat at most within 15-20 minutes walk.
Calcutta Police beat officers would in their beat pass by the spot। Police jeeps and vans would pass by the spot umpteen number of times but would never interfere, matter of factedly.
Mostly in the evening, quite too often the area would erupt with explosions. The goons would play bomb game with other groups of neighboring localities I/e Eden hospital road, Bow bazaar satta group, .Rabindra Sarani. They would throw crude bombs here and there madly, their threats and abuses rising to crescendo. The flames would rise a storey high.. But interestingly there never was an occasion when any of them received any injuries. It was mostly the unsuspecting passer byes squatters or children who received injuries or died in the blast. Some time the exchange of bombs would take place across Chitranjan Avenue the most important road Motorcade of dignitaries would pass through the रोड,.
Thought of home bring me tears
The thought of my native place brings nightmares and depression so much that my stomach churns breathing becomes shallow my limbs become numb.It is 12 years or more I have not been home do know who is there and who is not.I am the most coward man in the world. I don't want to hear any news either. Life was a tragedy. The sight of a letter from home made me catches my breath. There was always a bad news and request to do something for my sisters and help for other problems. I am the eldest of all my brothers and sisters. I have changed my address several times. My breast is loaded and heavy and breathing shallow as I write this message.
My urdu medium school
I hated my new school because of the filth, social environment and ill mannered and bad tempered teachers. Every teacher carried a stick a duster and a cane. Even if you visited casually any time you'd find students being caned in one class or the other!
It was my first day, my admission was late. The teacher – the science teacher Mr. Ya made all the students stand and he went about his ritualistic beatings on the out stretched palms. I almost fainted out of fear and shame and lo my turn came. I was trembling with fear .I extended my palm at last lest the cane rained all over my body..
I struggled to read the Urdu text while other students were fluent.
My parents took pity on me and bought me elementary books and encouraged me to read newspaper headings.
My aunt Husna would give me lessons and made me revise.
I was promoted on trial may be because of my Cousin sister who was head teacher of the girl section which ran in the morning from 6-11 am.
I passed my madhyamiki.e high school by the skin of my teeth. I passed in third division. I had prayed to God that I would not ask for anything more.
Similarly I passed my higher Secondary School in third division……
It was my first day, my admission was late. The teacher – the science teacher Mr. Ya made all the students stand and he went about his ritualistic beatings on the out stretched palms. I almost fainted out of fear and shame and lo my turn came. I was trembling with fear .I extended my palm at last lest the cane rained all over my body..
I struggled to read the Urdu text while other students were fluent.
My parents took pity on me and bought me elementary books and encouraged me to read newspaper headings.
My aunt Husna would give me lessons and made me revise.
I was promoted on trial may be because of my Cousin sister who was head teacher of the girl section which ran in the morning from 6-11 am.
I passed my madhyamiki.e high school by the skin of my teeth. I passed in third division. I had prayed to God that I would not ask for anything more.
Similarly I passed my higher Secondary School in third division……
My earliest days
I was born in April. My mother delivered me at home in the small corner room over looking the busy road in a two story delapididated building, in a Muslim dominated locality in Kolkata the erstwhile British capital of India
It was a happy home, sweet home till I gained consciousness of immortal gloom that enveloped us and still stalks me from all side.
My father was not even able to bear school fees of Rs. 10/- because of big family consisting of 12 heads that included dependent aunt, and cousins.
I sat outside the office of principal, Aapa sat beside me. She had prepared me for the interview; I don’t remember the face of father. I remember hazily that he made me read from a colorful alphabet book. He talked to me English and probably asked simple questions. After coming out of the office, I narrated to Aapa what principal made me read and what questions he asked. Probably she was not happy with several of my answers.
My supervisor mam who was of dark complexion, young, middle height wore thick red lipstick on her lips and smelled with scent, would roam the lawns while children played, to see if any of us spoke in our native tongue। She always carried a wooden ruler. If any of the children, was found not speaking in english, she would impose a fine of six paisa. She would take the student to principal office to note down particulars. She was a dedicated supervisor with a remarkable memory.
She would keep a sharp eye on students: on our dress, manners, cleanliness and behaviors, inside the classroom and outside of it.
It was my cousin sister who got me admitted to Welland Gold Smith School, at Bow Street and helped me oft and on with expenses. I remember the first day in the school vividly. The assembly in the chapel was in full swing. I went running on the stage, interrupting the proceedings and told ma'm in my native language i/e Urdu: : "Main toilet jaaunga" She made me repeat twice or thrice: "May I go to toilet".
Then there was an uncle the proprietor of an optical shop. Everyday he would distribute chocolates to students who passed by his shop.
Our dress was blue pant and yellow shirt. Bhaijan: Aquil adopted son of my aunt or Haqqa chaccha, Osman bhai , a servant who was rather a family member, would fetch me from the school at 2pm.The school was in fact 10-15 minutes walk from my home.
One day Aquil bhai on way from school told me that they have bought kids at home. I was overjoyed and began to twist and jump with joy while walking along the sidewalk.
They were three kids, white, brown and the other a mixture of brown and white. The brown one survived. After one year or so it was stolen. The goat was tied to a lamppost below. I was quite attached with the goat and felt very sad for many days.
Boys could only study up to class 2 in the school so she got my school changed when I passed class I and got me admitted to Ling Liang English High School- at Phears Lane। It was a missionary school। It was the values I imbibed in my missionary Schools made me misfit in the present society I think, I am seeking and searching the same values everywhere।
There was and endemic problem to keep me in the school because of fees repeated default in payment of fees and accumulation, dress, shoes, books exercise books and of course my poor performance and bad hand writing and poor health because of malnutrition. Some of my teachers thought that I was suffering from some disease and would avoid close contact.
Nevertheless my neighbors and relatives thought that I was intelligent and good.
So at last I was taken out of Ling Liang school mid-way and admitted to an Urdu medium school. I loved my previous school inspite of all the trouble and worry and wept. But I never insisted my parents to let me there, because I felt pity on them.
It was a happy home, sweet home till I gained consciousness of immortal gloom that enveloped us and still stalks me from all side.
My father was not even able to bear school fees of Rs. 10/- because of big family consisting of 12 heads that included dependent aunt, and cousins.
I sat outside the office of principal, Aapa sat beside me. She had prepared me for the interview; I don’t remember the face of father. I remember hazily that he made me read from a colorful alphabet book. He talked to me English and probably asked simple questions. After coming out of the office, I narrated to Aapa what principal made me read and what questions he asked. Probably she was not happy with several of my answers.
My supervisor mam who was of dark complexion, young, middle height wore thick red lipstick on her lips and smelled with scent, would roam the lawns while children played, to see if any of us spoke in our native tongue। She always carried a wooden ruler. If any of the children, was found not speaking in english, she would impose a fine of six paisa. She would take the student to principal office to note down particulars. She was a dedicated supervisor with a remarkable memory.
She would keep a sharp eye on students: on our dress, manners, cleanliness and behaviors, inside the classroom and outside of it.
It was my cousin sister who got me admitted to Welland Gold Smith School, at Bow Street and helped me oft and on with expenses. I remember the first day in the school vividly. The assembly in the chapel was in full swing. I went running on the stage, interrupting the proceedings and told ma'm in my native language i/e Urdu: : "Main toilet jaaunga" She made me repeat twice or thrice: "May I go to toilet".
Then there was an uncle the proprietor of an optical shop. Everyday he would distribute chocolates to students who passed by his shop.
Our dress was blue pant and yellow shirt. Bhaijan: Aquil adopted son of my aunt or Haqqa chaccha, Osman bhai , a servant who was rather a family member, would fetch me from the school at 2pm.The school was in fact 10-15 minutes walk from my home.
One day Aquil bhai on way from school told me that they have bought kids at home. I was overjoyed and began to twist and jump with joy while walking along the sidewalk.
They were three kids, white, brown and the other a mixture of brown and white. The brown one survived. After one year or so it was stolen. The goat was tied to a lamppost below. I was quite attached with the goat and felt very sad for many days.
Boys could only study up to class 2 in the school so she got my school changed when I passed class I and got me admitted to Ling Liang English High School- at Phears Lane। It was a missionary school। It was the values I imbibed in my missionary Schools made me misfit in the present society I think, I am seeking and searching the same values everywhere।
There was and endemic problem to keep me in the school because of fees repeated default in payment of fees and accumulation, dress, shoes, books exercise books and of course my poor performance and bad hand writing and poor health because of malnutrition. Some of my teachers thought that I was suffering from some disease and would avoid close contact.
Nevertheless my neighbors and relatives thought that I was intelligent and good.
So at last I was taken out of Ling Liang school mid-way and admitted to an Urdu medium school. I loved my previous school inspite of all the trouble and worry and wept. But I never insisted my parents to let me there, because I felt pity on them.
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