Sukul needs a proper introduction. He happens to be my schoolmate. Back in the day, he belonged to the tribe of boys who were ready to lose their heads but never their choti – the tuft of hair that epitomized their exalted caste. I could never quite understand how one could compare a man’s honour with something as limp as a choti. I was of the opinion that an animal lives on even if its tail is cut off, but the severed tail withers and rots away. Moreover, a tail has skin, blood, bone and muscles. A choti, by contrast, is merely a clump of hair. It is lifeless, soulless.
On several occasions, I’d heard from the likes of Sukul – the fanatics of the cult of the choti – profound spiritual discourses on its significance. Yet, not once did I see the electricity of wisdom spark through the bulbous tuft nor grasp its essence. As a result, Sukul and I drifted apart into rival groups. His gang had Hindu boys who imagined themselves to be defenders of that faith, whereas mine comprised those who believed friendship was above religion. Naturally, in my group, all were welcome – Hindus, Muslims, farmers, everyone. We even had different playgrounds.
At times, following serious…
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