Most of the people that surrounded me in the erstwhile village were poor and semi-literate. I was subconsciously aware that they were living in ignorance and fear. In the nights when the owl hooted I cringed in animal fear, for the owl was believed to be the messenger of the god of death. The womenfolk in the household were scared too; they heated iron in the chulha in the hope that it would silence the fearsome bird. One day a two year old boy in the neighboring house died of snakebite. His family lived in a shack of a house next to mine. When I returned from school I heard the women wailing. He used to babytalk to me whenever I looked down from the first floor windows. I felt grief, fear and a vague sense of despair, a feeling that the child should not have died.
Things brightened up whenever my father came down for holidays. Again without my conscious awareness, he represented another way of life.
By the age of five, I had started reading. I did not know what was good, bad or appropriate for children. I read whatever I could find and comprehend. There was a lot of time to read too, as I was left to my own company most of the time. Thus from the bookshelves in the corner room, minds spoke to me of beauty and glory. And unbeknown to me, from beyond the streets and hours along the highway, a bustling city and many cities to follow beckoned to me with their well-lit roads, movie halls, live art performances and a promise of freedom from fear.
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