New | Short Story | Crazy Ball | Abhinav Tyagi

John George Brown, How d'ye, Wikimedia Commons 

 

 

One day, he vanished with my ball and never came back. Parth. He loves balls but he is not a thief. He should have returned. Usually, he does.  Even if it pains him to do so.

 

It was a drowsy summer day. The afternoon sun was bouncing off the ripples in the local river and the blue sky was shining equally bright. By the riverside, a few guava trees with stooped branches were standing tall.  Their oval leaves were stealing all the light from the sun and sky, leaving the ground covered with dark patches. A little warmth reached the lush green grass and softened it. The fresh fragrance of wet mud and the sweet and fruity fragrance of guavas hung together in the air. And just a few meters away from the sparse guava trees, a dense jungle began. The trees there are of innumerable kinds. From the jungle comes the chirping of birds, as diverse as the trees. On a summer afternoon, it is a perfect place for repose. Thankfully, only a few knew about it. Parth was one of them and I was another.

 

That day too, he was there. I saw him, a young boy basking alone in the sun. He had his eyes shut towards the sky and his head pillowed by his palms. Bright sunlight was kissing his bright pink lips etched with a faint smile. Under his back, the soft grass was getting squashed. It was as if all his weight had seeped into the earth and all that was left behind was a light body. At this sight, one could have reasonably worried that the wind rippling the river and blowing his hair backward would scatter it like fallen leaves. But the wind caressed him instead. He was lying there, in a gentle sleep.  Blissfully unbothered by the roar of the river. Sweetly lulled by the soft rustle of the leaves. He seemed to be in a warm embrace of some calmer world.  You’d only see him smile like that by this riverside. For the world back home for Parth was much different, much crueler.

 

Parth was my neighbour. He was a short, gawky boy known by all in the neighborhood and pitied by most. The reasons for his fame, like pity, are many. For example, he was often found asleep in most random places - a bus stand, a park bench, on a tree- and clumsily mumbling the contents of his dream.  Everyone had seen him moving his lips at one time or another. But no one could comprehend anything. This is because he could barely speak. One could only infer. Perhaps he was lost in some dream even when I last saw him. He was always lost; lost in the classroom when teachers asked him the spellings, lost at the bus stand, overwhelmed by buses coming and going. Even lost at his own home, overlooked by his single mother for being strange. But Parth’s not strange, he’s just autistic. Although this fact is well known, it is not well understood. He is also called crazy by some. Cuckoo by others. Rarely do we hear his real name. Parth.

 

He was the neighbours’ punching bag, often called up when someone had to blow off some steam. Sometimes, he is even unfairly blamed for crimes he didn’t commit. Sometimes for crimes, he can’t possibly commit- how can he curse someone when he can barely speak? Unable to claim his innocence, Parth just ends up bleating for mercy. He flails his arms around with a helpless look on his face; his mother hates that face. She beats him up in front of everyone for being strange. Kids snicker, covering their mouths behind their palms.

 

When no dogs are near, Parth is invited to play. Kids throw the ball around and he is asked to fetch it. ‘The looney is no different than a dog,’ they laugh. Innocently, Parth laughs along. They pass each other the ball and he is made to run between them. ‘Look at his face, he likes balls as dogs do,’ they cheer. ‘You gonna bite the ball, looney?’ He mistakes their mocking cheers for compliments. Such is Parth’s innocence. He is not allowed to touch the ball unless it falls into some sewer. Then Parth is asked to throw himself in the stinky scum and get it back. ‘You have to fetch the ball,’ they tell him. ‘Rules are rules.’ Hesitantly, Parth nods and follows the commands. Knowing well that reaching home dirty would enrage his mother. But rules are rules. ‘Follow my rules if you want to live in my house,’ she always says. He has only learned to follow rules from her.

 

Parth’s love for the ball is exploited. He loves them because it fascinates him how a stick or a bat when dropped to the ground doesn’t come back up, but a ball always does. A ball is more reliable. Parth hates things or people that leave and never come back. Like his father, who left his mother when he was born because she had given birth to a crazy child, or his classmates who once took him to the riverside jungle and left him there alone. He only reached home that day with luck. Only to get beaten by his mother. This time for being late. Being late is against the rules.

 

Although the world back home was much different, much crueler, some relief was there for him. It was in balls of different sizes and colours, in their fascinating bounce. All balls attracted Parth to different degrees. He was a bit scared of big basketballs; he liked the softness of yellow smiley balls; the red leather ball was too hard and didn’t bounce well. But only one kind of ball out of all was loved by him. The crazy ball. It was a small rubber ball, not wider than a coin, and sold for five rupees at the local general store. It was named so because it bounced the highest at minimal force. When Parth first encountered them, he was unaware of this special quality of these balls. They only appeared as small smooth balls wrapped in plastic and in many colours and prints- chequered, plain or polka-dotted. Little did he know he’d fall in love with them the moment one would bounce in front of his eyes. For when it did, not only did the ball come back from the ground, it went higher than he had expected.  Parth’s eyes traced its complete trajectory without a blink and his mouth was agape. All other balls receded in shadows; the crazy ball had dazzled him.  Whenever he got money-that is only on festivals- he bought them. Some shopkeepers even testify that Parth has never bought chocolate for himself; he only buys balls. With gleaming eyes, he puts his coin on the shopkeeper's palm and in a rush, he snatches the ball off him. He grips it tight in his own and hurries to the riverside.

 

The vast isolated land by the river is his ideal playground. No one comes there. Nothing disturbs him. He does not like to share his ball with others. This is because he is afraid they will lose it. By the riverside, he is free. He does not have to follow any rules. The ball also feels free. It bounces without risk of striking some glass window or door. Parth can slam it down as hard as possible. Nothing will be damaged. And he does slam it with his full force. The ball in return competes with guava trees. The impact after it hits the ground sends it flying upwards but it never surpasses them. The trees are tall and Parth is not so strong. But he likes to try. Occasionally, the ball strikes the guava leaves and polishes off any dirt on them or tosses the caterpillar crawling on it. A falling caterpillar amuses him. Once it even stuck the guava stalk and brought ripe guava down with itself. Parth picked it up and pressed on its green surface and the fruit gave in under his fingers. Ascertaining it fit to eat, he took a big bite and continued his game. The guava was sweet and soft; its fresh musky smell tempted the squirrels. But they were too afraid to come closer. They scampered away when the ball moved in their direction. Parth laughed at them and deliberately threw the ball toward them.

 

After one initial bounce, the ball becomes independent. It strikes stones and bounces off the trees at its own will. When tired, it rolls in the grass or splashes down in the mud. Parth follows all its movements with a smile. The play goes on till the ball is lost or the sun sets.  The way his balls are lost is peculiar. That is because they are always in plain sight. Parth just considers them as lost when they enter the nearby jungle. He is afraid of the tightly packed trees, so he never goes to fetch them and simply despairs the loss. When he doesn’t have a ball, he rests on the same ground and counts the number of days till the next festival.

 

Sometimes they come quickly. At other times, they don’t. Sometimes Parth gets money. At other times, he does not. When he does not, he takes desperate measures. But such measures never work. I remember one such incident that happened a few weeks ago. It’s known in the neighbourhood as the foil paper incident. One day, Parth saw some of his classmates playing cricket in the class. He, of course, had seen cricket before but they were not playing the usual cricket with a wooden bat and a leather ball. There were some unique twists in their game. For starters, the kids had improvised a notebook for a bat and foil paper for a ball. The attempt was simple yet ingenious. The foil paper was crushed into a sphere; the smaller the better and the bowler was supposed to throw it towards the batsman like a baseball pitch. That is without slamming it onto the ground. On the wall, a wicket was drawn with chalk. The batsman stood in front of it with his notebook to strike with his full force. If the ball was caught or lost, the batsman was out. The game has its own demands. Some notebooks are preferred over others. Hard-covers without plastic sheet covering are the best. Soft-covers with plastic are the worst as the ball slips on them. As for the ball, any kind of foil paper works. Sometimes even a newspaper. Though foil being heavier is preferred between the two. Seeing their innovation, Parth excitedly dashed to his home after his school and went straight to the kitchen. He pulled out a big shiny sheet of foil paper from its roll and tore it. Then he proceeded to crush it between his small palms. The foil felt coarse against his skin. In seconds, he rolled it up in a sphere. Though it had blackened up a bit and had lost some of its shine and smoothness, it still resembled the ball in all physical aspects. He didn’t care much about its shine. Only the bounce mattered. With great expectations, he slammed it on the kitchen floor, but the ball didn’t come back up. Instead, it rolled twice to settle beside his feet, flattened from the side that had struck the floor. Parth stared down at it. He felt deceived. ‘A ball must bounce back,’ he had believed, ‘if it doesn’t bounce back, it is not a ball’. That was his first maxim. Then how can it be that a foil paper ‘ball’ is a ball? Parth was confused and dejected. That was not how it was supposed to be. The ball didn’t give him any explanation. He felt lied to. Parth doesn’t like things or people that lie to him. In a rage, he stomped upon the ball a few times and flattened the foil. Hearing the noise of stomping feet, his mother appeared and caught him in the act of wasting foil. ‘This retard!’ She uttered with her teeth clenched and moved forward to slap him. Parth noticing his enraged mother forgot about the ball and immediately crouched down to save himself. He whimpered while his mother hit him repeatedly on his back. He cried louder and louder and his mother grew more annoyed. So she picked her time-tested rolling pin and gave his head three hard blows. It is said that he was left unconscious on the kitchen floor.

 

The back of his head was swollen even that day when I found him by the riverside. He couldn’t rest his head on the ground without hurting himself. Not even on lush green grass softened by the sun. I had just gone there to give him a ball.

 

Balls were not as appealing to me as they were to him. Maybe they were not so for anyone else either. So whenever I spot one, I pick it up and take it to Parth. Always, he beams with joy. Sometimes the balls were discarded by kids due to the slightest fault; sometimes they were simply misplaced. In any case, the rule was- ‘Whoever finds it, gets to keep it.’ I kept them all for Parth. That day too, I found one. It was a red crazy ball in good enough condition except for a few dog bite marks here and there. It must have been left behind by some kid disgusted by the dog’s saliva. Parth was not that choosy. Anyway, when I spotted it, the saliva on it had dried up. White patches were encrusted on its surface. I picked it up and checked for the bounce. The ball bounced well. Holding it tight in my hand, I smiled to myself and set out for him.

 

Parth was just snoozing there under the afternoon sun. His innocent face appeared to be in a blissful sleep. Not wishing to disturb him, I tip-toed softly over the grass and paused a few steps away from him. Then I crouched down carefully and rolled the ball towards him and before he could wake up, I slipped into the bushes. All this because I wanted to surprise him. The ball rolled up to him and hit him in his side . He opened his eyes and slowly picked himself up, letting out a big yawn as he did. He began rubbing his eyes but stopped abruptly when they fell on the red-white ball beside him. For two seconds, he didn’t move. Then as if some spark went through his body, the slow movements of his limbs quickened. He jumped up straight and picked up the ball and began turning it around in his palm. He was trying to make sure it was real. How could a ball so perfect appear out of nowhere? Rapidly, he swung his neck around to look for the ball’s rightful owner. No claimant showed himself. Parth was visibly pleased with that. His drowsy face changed colour. Excitement tightened his loose cheeks and a wide smile appeared on his face. Unable to control his excitement, he squeezed the ball tight in his hands. But his movements suddenly turned cautious. He restrained his smile and a shade of gloom came out on his face. The wound of the foil paper ball’s betrayal was still hurting and a certain amount of skepticism had entered his mind. Just like he doesn’t go to the jungle if other kids call him, he doesn’t trust everything that looks like a ball.

 

To check the ball’s authenticity, Parth carried out the same test as I had. He slammed it to the ground and the ball, as if indignant at being doubted, jumped twice as high. His eyes followed its leap. With his mouth gaping at the sky, he burst into a loud laughter. It’s a real ball! A real red crazy ball that had appeared out of nowhere. He bounced on his feet and lost all the caution. Parth likes it when things appear out of nowhere, like the wind in his hair, or his dreams. He caught the ball, threw it up  and caught it again. And so began his carefree play. His limbs moved as if they were not conscious of his body. He bounced the ball around, he rolled it on the ground. Sometimes he shot it at the tree. Most times, he missed his aim and then awkwardly chased after it. Through it all, he kept laughing and clapping. The sound of his laughter bounced off the waves in the river. The riverside was beaming up in joy with him.

 

Parth’s pleasures were simple, and so were his concerns. He was careful to stay away from the jungle and made sure the ball didn’t go there by any chance. Every few minutes, he checked his distance from the thick bushes. It was easy for him to forget his whereabouts in the play. But his attention was either focused on the deep woods or on the ball. As a result, he didn’t realise how much closer he had moved to the river. Not even how loud the running water was. In his joyous oblivion, the river’s roars were cheers for him.  In one of his games, the ball bounced too close to the edge of the river, and too far from him. With his eyes fixed on it, Parth ran after it. He huffed and puffed with his hands outstretched. When he came a bit closer, he leaped after it. Somehow, he managed to catch the ball and smiled when it stopped in his palms. But the joy was short-lived. Both he and the ball were too far from the ground. Below them, the ground had been replaced with violent and jostling waves. In a moment, he splashed down the water with a flump.

 

I dashed out of the woods after him. It was my fault. I should not have given him the ball. Why did he take it? He should not have. I should have left it behind. Why did I disturb his sleep? I stooped at the river’s edge and tried to look for him. But nothing could be seen. There wasn't anyone struggling to swim either. He had vanished. In vain, I called his name. ‘Parth! Parth!’ I cried loudly. The pure white foam only shrieked in response. I heard nothing else.  No laughter. No pleading bleats of innocence. Even the ball didn’t come back this time.