Waiting to Inhale.....

I am guilty of 'escapist' writing. I am fully aware of that and readily confess to it. Rarely have I written of issues that are current and of consequence, mainly because I find them either complicated or controversial or simply, uninteresting. But when a respected reader suggested I write about 'pollution', because to a writer, a reader is God, here's an 'Aibee'sque take 'Pollution'. Do leave your views.

WAITING TO INHALE....

I was taking lessons for my nephew. All of five years, he is a handsome, intelligent and an aware young man.

We were learning colours.
Red as?
A rose!

Black as ?
The Night!

Yellow as ?
A Sunflower?
(Have you seen one? I couldn't help asking.
Yes! Pat came the confident reply. On Mumma's cooking oil jar!
I had to accept that.)

Blue as ?

But here the little man's memory failed him. He paused, tilting his head sideways, as if the change in posture would stimulate his little gray cells. But it did not work.
He looked at me askance.

Blue as the sky. I answered.

As the sky? He sounded terribly skeptical.

The sky is not blue, बड़ी माँ. Don't you know that?

I was mighty surprised. No? But I always thought that it was blue.

No, no बड़ी माँ. It is not.

Little Aryan took my hand. Come I'll show you.

Together we climbed up to the roof.
It was around eleven am. An autumn morning. Sweltering hot. And stiflingly humid.
Dust and smoke.

See. Aryan pointed above.

I followed his hand.

Above me an autumn sky stretched all around, playing hide and seek with concrete skyscrapers.

It was a tepid brown, the colour of mud.

See, Aryan repeated. The sky is not blue,  बड़ी माँ. It's brown. You were wrong.

When I was as old as he is now, my sky had been a 'colour' shifter : at dawn, a pale orange-pink, in the early morning, a gentle light blue, at noon, a sharp deep azure, at dusk a mocktail of pink, purple and navy blue and finally at night, like a black chiffon silk sari inlaid with swarovski crystals....

But never had it ever, been this dull sickly brown.

I looked back at Aryan. His face was scrunched against the sun, one hand holding onto me and the other pinching his nose.

What are you doing Aryan? I was intrigued by his posture.

Through his tiny pinched nostrils, he squeaked out,   बड़ी माँ, don't breathe here. Pollution is not good for your lungs.

He tugged at my hands. His voice was urgent. Let's go back indoors. We'll fall sick if we stay here long.

I remained silent, for I had nothing to say to him, this little boy whose sky was brown.

I obediently pinched my nostrils and together we climbed down the stairs, back into his home with air conditioners and air purifiers in each room and from where each day his Daddy, his Mumma and he himself went to work/school in this bustling big city, wearing little masks on their faces.

It was only when we were safely inside the house that the child removed the pincer-grip on his nostrils.

Its ok now,  बड़ी माँ. He assured me.

You can inhale now.